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The Borzoi Plays I 

WAR 

A play in four acts translated by 
Thomas Seltzer from the Russian of 



Michael 
Artzibashef 




Class 

BooIc_ 

GopyriglitW- 



COPYRIGHT DEPQSm 



War 





THE BORZOI PLAYS 


I 


WAR 




By Michael Artzibashef 


II 


MOLOCH 




By Beulah Marie Dix 


III 


MORAL 




By Ludwig Thoma 


IV 


THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL 




By Nicolay Gogol 



The Borzoi Plays I 



WAR 



A play in four acts translated by 
Thomas Seltzer from the Russian of 



Michael 
Artzibashef 




Jlx)- 



New York • Alfred A Knopf -1916 






. 



*** 



COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF 

NOTE 
This play was published in The Drama, Chicago, February, 1916. I 
am grateful to Mr. Theodore B. Hinckley, its editor, for his kind per- 
mission to reprint it. 

The proper transliteration of the author's name is Artzybashev, not 
Artzibashef. But as the latter spelling has been made familiar by the 
English translator of his novels, it is used here to prevent possible con- 
fusion. 

T. S. 




PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

OCT 23 1916 
©CJ.D 4 534 2 



MICHAEL ARTZIBASHEF 

Of the three living Russian authors who have achieved 
world fame, Gorky, Andreyev and Artzibashef, Gorky is 
better known than read in this country, Andreyev is both 
known and read, though by more limited numbers, while 
Artzibashef is read more and known less. To enjoy 
Gorky and Andreyev one must, it seems, be a devotee of 
literature, and a devotee of literature is always interested 
in the personalities of its creators. But one can enjoy 
Artzibashef's writings and concern oneself little about 
Artzibashef the man. Like the English servant girl 
who asked the librarian for a copy of Pamela to read it 
for the twentieth time and could not name Richardson, 
its author, unconscious apparently that it had an author, 
so many an American will devour a novel like Sanine 
without bothering to pronounce the name of its writer. 

Richardson and Artzibashef — a strange collocation ! 
It would seem on the face of it that they are farther 
removed from each other in the nature and quality of 
their works than they are even in time. And yet there 
is a fundamental kinship between the two. The book on 
which Richardson's fame rests has made its wide appeal 
by the predominance of that element in it which is also 
the predominant note in Sanine — love, sex. This ele- 
ment in Sanine it is that has given it hundreds of 
thousands of readers in Russia, Germany, and France 
and has spread its fame to England and America, where 
temporarily surrendering our second nature, puritanism, 
to our primal instincts, we too are beginning to read it 
by the thousands. 

Nevertheless, in the treatment of their basic material, 
v 



VI 



War 



the natural instincts of man, Richardson and Artzibashef 
are, as may well be expected, poles apart. Strange as 
it may seem, the eighteenth century Englishman, for all 
his artistic crudity and insular narrowness, sees life 
from a broader, more comprehensively human viewpoint 
than the consummate Russian artist, the highest expres- 
sion of extreme modernity. Let this much be said in 
despite of all the sneers and contemptuous shruggings 
of the shoulders of our individualist anarchs: Richard- 
son takes a less one-sided view of life than Artzibashef. 
He finds men living not only by their instincts* but by 
their conventions as well. And he does not inquire 
whether these conventions were superimposed by tra- 
dition, prejudice, or superannuated reason, which is now 
the very opposite of reason. His task as an artist is 
merely to take account of them. To ignore them is to 
ignore factors in human life which are as surely existent 
as the natural instincts. Because the question as to 
whether these conventions are merely secondary forces 
in human life didn't even present itself to him, he was 
able to give a more complete picture of life as it actually 
was in his time. He was not great enough artist to 
remain impartial. Virtue must be rewarded, and to that 
end the natural instincts, though not ignored, must be 
fought and brought to terms. 

Yet the animal part of man fares far better in Pamela 
than virtue does in Sanine. Even granting the su- 
premacy of the former, the English novelist gives his 
enemy, the animal impulses, a fairer chance, relatively 
to the actual part they play in human conduct, than 
Artzibashef does to his pet aversion, moral restraint. 
From first to last in Sanine, in the short story, The Wife, 
and in numerous other works, morality, and chiefly sex 
morality, is made to seem such a small, feeble, pitiful 
thing, that apart from all other considerations, just in 
the interest of unprejudiced truth, it must be said: " It 



War vii 

is not so. The facts do not warrant it. Sanine's pres- 
entation of the case is at least as much of an under- 
valuation of the strength of the ethical factors, as the 
Puritan's is an exaggeration of them." We turn to 
page 49 of the Russian edition and find Sanine saying: 

" I have always wondered why people are so opposed 
to drink. In my opinion it is only a drunken man who 
lives the way a man should live." 

" Or an animal/' Novikov remarked. 

"All right. What of it?" Sanine retorted. "The 
fact remains that a drunken man does nothing but what 
he wants to do. If he wants to drink, he drinks. And 
he is not ashamed of being jolly and making merry." 

" Sometimes he fights, too," Raznichev observed. 

" Yes, that's sometimes the case." 

"You don't fight when you are drunk? " asked Novi- 
kov. 

" No. I am more quarrelsome when I am sober. 
When I am drunk, I am the kindest of men because I 
forget such a lot of meanness." 

" But everybody else is not like you in that respect." 

" I am sorry. But what do I care for everybody else ? 
Everybody else isn't anything in the world to me." ' 

" That's not the right way to speak," remarked Novi- 
kov. 

" Why not, if it's the truth? " 

" A nice truth," said Lilya, tossing her head. 

" The best I know of," said Ivanov for Sanine. 

A very interesting discussion pro and con of the liquor 
question, and in perfect character, too. Artzibashef is 
too fine an artist to strike a false note. But when we 
are left to infer that Sanine has spoken the last word 
on this, as on all other subjects upon which he pro- 
nounces his demolishing dicta, then we must enter our 
demurrer. 

Then what is Artibashef's strength? It is this: 



viii War 

within the limits of that part of the world in which his 
characters move, he is powerfully, fearfully, mercilessly, 
often irritatingly true to life. With a touch as sure as 
Tolstoy's and with his simplicity, too, he conjures before 
us a picture, a situation, a character, a mood to which 
we must in honesty bow assent. And it is all the more 
wonderful because of the simple mechanism with which 
he produces his effects. There is no straining, nothing 
in each unit of composition which a child could not do 
as well. Yet the net result is a product of rare harmony 
and beauty bringing that satisfaction which only a work 
of real art can inspire. 

When Sanine was published, it immediately produced 
a sensation and aroused a discussion that in volume and 
intensity was unusual even in Russia, where literary dis- 
cussions are frequent and serious. No book since the 
publication of Turgenev's Fathers and Children, as 
Artzibashef himself tells us, stirred up such interest. 
It was hailed with wild enthusiasm and attacked with 
savage ferocity. And the author himself frankly admits 
that " both the eulogies and the condemnations are 
equally one-sided." His own story of the fortunes and 
the significance of the book is interesting and illuminat- 
ing. 

" In the year 1903, I wrote Sanine. This fact is will- 
fully suppressed by Russian critics; moreover, they try 
to persuade the public that Sanine is an outcome of the 
reaction of the year 1907, and that I have followed the 
fashionable tendency of contemporary Russian literature. 
In reality, however, the novel had been read by editors 
of two reviews and by many celebrated authors as early 
as 1903. Again I owe it to the censorship and the 
timidity of publishers that it was not brought out at 
the time. It is an interesting fact that the novel was 
refused on account of its ideas by the editorial staff of 
the same monthly review, Sovremienny Mir, which some 



War ix 

years later begged me to give it to them for publication. 
In this way Sanine made its appearance five years too 
late. This was very much against it: at the time of its 
appearance literature had been flooded by streams of 
pornographic and even homosexual works, and my novel 
was likely to be judged with these. 

" Sanine is neither a novel of ethics nor a libel on the 
younger -generation. Sanine is the apology for individ- 
ualism ; the hero of the novel is a type. In its pure form 
this type is still new and rare, but its spirit is in every 
frank, bold and strong representative of the new Russia. 
A number of imitators who have never grasped my ideas 
hastened to turn the success of Sanine to their own ad- 
vantage; they injured me greatly by inundating the 
literary world with wantonly obscene writings, thus de- 
grading in the reader's eyes what I wished to express in 
Sanine. 

" The critics persisted in ranking me with the number 
of second-rate imitators of Sanine who displayed their 
' marketable wares ' full of all sorts of offensiveness. 
Not until recently, when Sanine had crossed the fron- 
tiers, and translations had appeared in Germany, France, 
Italy, Bohemia, Bulgaria, Hungary, Denmark, and also, 
in part, in Japan, were other voices to be heard among 
the critics. Russia always does grovel before foreign 
opinion." 

The sensational success of Sanine has thrust Artzi- 
bashef's other works into the background and, as usually 
happens, has resulted in a one-sided estimate of the 
author. The fact, however, is that Artzibashef has by 
no means confined himself to the question of sex. True 
to the best literary traditions, he reflects the manifold 
changing interests of Russian contemporary society. 
His first story, Pasha Tumanov, written in 1901, dealt 
with the evils of the Russian grammar schools, a hotbed 
of suicides. Some of his best creations, which he began 



x War 

in 1905, are to be found in the stories of the revolution. 
They are vivid pictures of Russian radical types, and 
in the rendering of the atmosphere of the Revolution and 
in the revelation of the motive forces that impelled its 
actors, they are unexcelled even by Ropshin, who gained 
signal fame several years later by the publication of his 
two remarkable books on the same subj ect. Occasionally 
Artzibashef takes an excursion into the lower depths, as 
in the psychologic study of The Shoe Maker, which is 
quite in the vein of Gorky. But all this Artzibashef 
considers as just incidental, foreign to his real mission, 
which, he says, is to preach the gospel of " anarchic in- 
dividualism." 

Of the two plays he has written, Jealousy, published 
in 1913, bears a strong kinship to Sanine, with the erotic 
element accented to the abnormal. The outbreak of the 
war turned Russian literature away from the wild cur- 
rent of sex, into which it had been caught up at the end 
of the Revolution and in which it ran with ever increas- 
ing impetus for several years. It is to be hoped that the 
banishment of exaggerated emotion from the field of 
Russian literature will be permanent. It has had ample 
time to do its best and worst, and it has done it. What 
further function is left to it? Russian life as well as 
Russian literature can only gain if with the disappear- 
ance of the " Sanine Clubs " that sprang up like mush- 
rooms after the publication of the book, has come also 
the culmination of the cheap literature in imitation of 
Sanine without the genius of its author.* 

* Since the above was written a new novel by Artzibashef 
has appeared bearing the Biblical title The Woman Standing 
in the Midst. It is quite in the vein of Sanine and even more 
relentless in detail. There is this important difference, how- 
ever — the heroine revolts against the men who have brought 
moral ruin upon her in the pursuit of their pleasure, and the 
men themselves appear in anything but a favorable light. So 
that the whole creates the impression of being a homily against 
Saninism, 



War xi 

The effect of new conditions upon Artzibashef himself 
has been marvelously purifying. It seems scarcely 
credible that the author of Jealousy could have written 
War only a little over a year later. With the bigness 
of his theme the author's art has grown big. In its 
classic simplicity and restraint War is worthy of Tur- 
genev; in its cruel exposition of the logic of horrible 
facts it reaches the loftiness of the Greek tragedy. In 
the technique, to be sure, Artzibashef is as anarchic as in 
his philosophy; but it is the anarchy of the very events 
the play depicts, an anarchy that makes the play equiva- 
lent to life. Artzibashef is not bothered, as many a 
smaller playwright might have been bothered, by the fact 
that the first act is just a picture that might easily have 
been omitted, and thus have made the action more con- 
centrated. What he gains by the contrast between the 
peaceful happy situation in the first act and the havoc 
in the next three amply repays for the looseness in con- 
struction. Observe, too, the subtle use of the two char- 
acters, the consumptive Semyonov and the Prince, both 
of them weaklings in the first act, the one to be pitied 
for his physical disability, the other for his moral in- 
feriority. In the next three acts the tables are turned. 
In the world left after the war has done its work and 
marked its impress upon its victims, Semyonov and the 
Prince have become the strong ones. 

Of course, the militarist may say of this play what I 
have said before of Sanine. It exaggerates one side. 
The other side is not given a hearing. But this is a 
question about which millions see only one side, and for 
an artist to be of those millions does not condemn him 
for narrowness. 

The following extracts from a short autobiographical 
sketch contain the essential facts of Artzibashef 's career. 
The passage I quoted on Sanine is also taken from this 
sketch. 



xii War 

"I was born in the year 1878 in a small town in 
Southern Russia. By name and extraction I am Tar- 
tar, but not of pure descent, since there is Russian, 
French, Georgian, and Polish blood in my veins. There 
is one of my ancestors of whom I am proud, and that is 
the well-known Polish rebel leader Kosciusko, my great- 
grandfather on the maternal side. My father was a 
small landowner, a retired officer; my mother died of 
consumption when I was three years old, bequeathing me 
a legacy of tuberculosis. I did not become seriously ill 
until 1907, but even before that the tuberculosis never 
left me in peace, as it manifested itself in various forms 
of illness. 

" I went to a grammar-school in the provinces ; but as 
I had taken the keenest interest in painting from my 
childhood, I left it at the age of sixteen and went to a 
school of art. I was very poor; I had to live in dirty 
garrets without enough to eat, and the worst of it all 
was that I had not enough money for my principal needs 
— paints and canvas. So it was not given to me to be- 
come an artist; to earn anything at all I was obliged to 
do caricatures and write short essays and humorous tales 
for all kinds of cheap papers. 

" Quite by chance, in the year 1901, I wrote my first 
story, Pasha Tumanov. An actual occurrence and my 
own hatred for the superannuated schools suggested the 
subject. But the censorship at that time categorically 
forbade any statements to be made which did not show 
life in the schools in a pleasing light. Thus it was im- 
possible for the story to achieve publicity at the right 
time, and it did not appear until some years later in 
book form. That has been the fate, moreover, of many 
of my things. In spite of this the story was not without 
favorable results for me ; it attracted the attention of the 
editorial staff and stimulated me to further work. I 
renounced my dream of becoming an artist and trans- 



War xiii 

f erred my allegiance to literature. This was very hard; 
even to-day I cannot see paintings without emotion. I 
love colors more than words. 

" Pasha Tumanov was followed by two or three stories 
which interested the editor of a small review, a man 
named Miroliubov. My first introduction to literary 
circles I owe to him. Up till then I had never been in 
editorial offices, but had always sent my tales by post. 
This was because I imagined them as temples conse- 
crated to literature, which I revered. Nowadays we live 
in other times and have other customs in Russia; adver- 
tisement and influence dominate the literary world. 
However, Miroliubov's name will leave its mark on the 
history of Russian literature, although he did not write 
himself. 

" In the year 1905, during the bloody Revolution much 
that I had written for purposes of agitation was con- 
fiscated. I myself was indicted, but the temporary suc- 
cess of the Revolution at the end of 1905 saved me from 
punishment. 

" My development was very strongly influenced by 
Tolstoy, although I never shared his views on non-resist- 
ance to evil. As an artist he overpowered me, and I 
found it difficult not to model my work on his. Dostoev- 
sky, and to a certain extent, Chekhov, played almost as 
great a part, and Victor Hugo and Goethe were con- 
stantly before my eyes. These five names are those of 
my teachers and literary masters. 

" It is often thought here that Nietzsche exercised a 
great influence over me. This surprises me, for the sim- 
ple reason that I never read Nietzsche. This brilliant 
thinker is out of sympathy with me, both in his ideas 
and in the bombastic form of his works, and I have never 
got beyond the beginnings of his books. Max Stirner is 
to me much nearer and more comprehensible." 

Thomas Seltzer. 



M 



WAR 

A Play in Four Acts, translated from the Russian of 
Michael Artzibashef by Thomas Seltzer 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Piotr Ivanovich, a retired colonel. 

Olga Petrovna, his wife. 

Volodya, a student^ their son. 

Nina, their daughter. 

Vladimir Aleksandrovich, an officer, her husband. 

Asya, a young girl. 

Daue, a second lieutenant. 

Prince Voronetzky, a landowner. 

Semyonov, a student. 

Sonya and Kolya, children of an officer killed in the war. 

Sidorenko, an officer's servant. 

Katya, a maid. 

A medical student, a Sister of Mercy, and soldiers. 

The action takes place in the house of Piotr in the Russia 
of to-day. 



WAR 



ACT I 

It is a bright, sunny day in spring. The trees in front 
of an old nobleman's house are in blossom. Broad 
steps lead from a columned terrace down to the garden. 
On the terrace is a large rush-bottom armchair, and on 
one side under a large tree a garden bench. In front of 
the house a circular plot with early spring flowers. Be- 
yond the trees is seen a railing and a wicket gate open- 
ing into a city street. Olga Petrovna, the mother, is at 
work in the flower bed, while Piotr Ivanovich, her hus- 
band stands looking on, smoking. He wears a light uni- 
form and is hatless. 

Olga. You had better put your cap on, Piotr. 
You'll catch cold. 

Piotr. Oh, no; I'm warm. 

Olga. Yes, warm. You think so. It's just the kind 
of weather one is apt to catch a cold in. I'll tell Katya 
to bring you your cap. 

Piotr. Don't; I don't need it. 

Olga [not heeding him, she calls]. Katya, Katya. 

Katya [coming out on the terrace]. What is it? 

Olga. Bring the master's cap, and tell Aksinya to 
start a fire in the fireplace. 

Katya. Yes, ma'am. [She goes out.] 

Piotr [looking at his watch]. It's time for coffee. 
Will you be done soon? 

3 



4s War 

Olga. What time is it? 

Piotr. Half past twelve — time long ago. 

Olga. I'll be through in a moment. I must tell 
Sidorenko to water the flowers every evening. He never 
does a stroke of work, anyway — just runs after Katya 
the whole day. 

Katya [coming down the steps]. Here's your cap, 
Master. 

Olga. Is Vladimir Aleksandrovich up yet? 

Katya. Yes, he's washing. Shall I get the coffee 
ready ? 

Olga. Yes, yes. Take a clean tablecloth from the 
sideboard. And be careful not to soil it at once the way 
you always do. I can never keep a large enough supply 
of tablecloths. 

Katya. All right, ma'am; I'll be careful. [She goes 
into the house.] 

Piotr [pulling his cap down on his head with an 
air of gravity], I don't remember a spring like this for 
ever so long. Last year at this time it was still quite 
cold. 

Olga. You just imagine it, Piotr. Last year was 
warm too. It's the month of May, thank God! 

Piotr. I remember distinctly wearing an overcoat 
when I went out on the tenth of May. 

Olga. You don't remember any such thing. It's 
your imagination, nothing else, I assure you. 

Piotr [heatedly]. But I remember it distinctly. 
[After a pause.] But I never saw a spring like the one 
in the year 1877, when we crossed the frontier. 

Olga [without heeding him], I haven't planted 
any resedas this year. 

Piotr. When we arrived at the Danube — 

Olga. Here is Nina. Why are you dressed so 
lightly, Ninochka? I'll tell Vladimir on you. 

Nina [in a light summer dress, comes out on the 



War 5 

terrace and sits down on the top step]. All right, 
Mamma; tell him. — What were you talking about so 
animatedly, Papa? 

Piotr. I was saying that in 1877, when we crossed 
the frontier — 

Olga [annoyed]. We've heard all that before, 
Piotr. 

Piotr [with heat]. Why, I declare! Nina asked 
me a question, and I answered her. Why, why — 

Nina [smiling quietly]. Papa, isn't it time for you 
to take your coffee? 

Piotr [instantly forgetting the dispute]. Yes, high 
time. But you can't tear your mother away from her 
flowers ! 

Olga. One moment, one moment! 

Piotr. I know your " one moment." Nina, has 
Vladimir come back yet? 

Nina. He'll be here presently. 

Piotr. Well, Olga. 

Olga. You go, go. I'll be coming soon. 

Piotr [good-naturedly, rubbing his hands and walk- 
ing into the house]. Nina, make her come in soon, or 
she'll be at it the rest of the day. [He goes into the 
house.] 

There is silence as Olga potters over the flowers, 
passing from one side of the plot to the other. Nina, 
sitting on the terrace, looks around with a bright, con- 
templative expression. 

Nina. I woke up today thinking it will soon be three 
years that I'm married. How strange! 

Olga. Why strange? 

Nina. I don't know. When I first met Vladimir I 
didn't like him a bit, and if somebody had told me I was 
going to marry him I'd have laughed at the idea. 

Olga. It's always like that. 

Nina [after a silence], I had just graduated from 



6 War 

college, and my head was all awhirl with the expectation 
of something unusual. Prince Voronetsky was courting 
me, and I almost fell in love with him. In fact, I was 
a little in love with him. Suddenly I stopped caring for 
the Prince and began to feel that Vladimir was the best, 
the dearest of men. How stupid I was then, so afraid 
people would find out that Vladimir and I had kissed. 
I thought something dreadful would happen if it were 
found out. But then it did come out, and there was 
nothing terrible about it, and everybody was glad. 
[After a silence.] It was a great time. [Sadly.] It 
seems to me nothing like it will ever come into my life 
again. 

Olga [in a philosophical tone]. It was good, and 
it will be better still. 

Nina. No; nothing like it again for me. It was 
something — like a fairy tale, like a dream. I some- 
times think there will never again be such nights, with 
such a moon; that there cannot possibly be such nights 
again. I am happy, and yet it's sad to think that the 
best is all behind me and can never return. 

Olga. How do you know, Ninochka? 

Nina [surprised]. But I can't be Vladimir's sweet- 
heart all over again. 

Olga [slyly]. Why just Vladimir's? 

Nina [looking at her in amazement, with sudden 
embarrassment]. Mamma, what are you saying? It's 
ugly ! I don't like it. 

Olga [amused at her embarrassment]. Why ugly? 
Lots of things happen in the world. Suppose a war 
were suddenly to be declared, and Vladimir were to be 
killed — Heaven forbid ! Then you'd marry again. 

Nina. No, never. Even if Vladimir were killed, I 
would never marry again. 

Olga. That's what they all say, Ninochka; but all 



War 7 

the same, when it comes to it, they do marry again and 
bear children. 

Nina. Disgusting. How can a woman ever forget 
what has been, especially if the man she loved is killed? 
It's horrid. 

Olga. Of course it's horrid. But what is one to do ? 
Bury oneself in a monastery ? You cry and cry — and 
then you forget. One must live some way. 

Nina. I don't see why it's so absolutely necessary. 
And then, even if I should marry again, I should feel 
miserable and awkward. 

Olga. It only seems so to you now, Ninochka. 

Nina. No, it doesn't only seem so; I know it. How 
can one feel the same way a second time? No matter 
how much I loved my second husband, I'd always be re- 
membering and comparing ! No, it's ugly. 

Olga. There is nothing ugly about it. 

Nina. It is ugly. Anyway, I think it would be far 
better to fall in love and then die, than to have to return 
again to a dull, prosaic, every-day existence. 

Olga. If that's the way you take it, then life isn't 
worth living. 

Nina. Perhaps it isn't. 

Olga. And yet here have we been living together, 
your father and I, and have both grown old, and still 
we have no desire to die. 

Nina. Oh, you; that's different. 

Olga. You only think it's different. 

Nina. Why only think? What do you mean? 

Olga. Exactly what I say. You imagine it's dif- 
ferent, but it isn't. It's because you have no children. 
When you get children, you'll settle down at once. 

Nina [blushing]. I shall never have children. 

Olga. And, pray, why not? 

Nina. Because — because I don't like children, 



8 War 

Olga. You don't like them because you haven't got 
them. When I was young, I, too, thought I didn't like 
children; but when I lost my Sandy, I nearly went 
crazy. 

Silence. 

Nina. Still, it's all very sad. 

Olga. Sad, sad ! — You had better put more clothes 
on, or you'll catch cold. 

Nina. Now, Mother ! how can one catch cold in such 
weather ? 

Olga [insistently]. This is just the kind of weather 
one is apt to catch cold in. 

Katya [appearing on the steps]. The master is call- 
ing you. 

Olga. I am coming; I am coming. [She straightens 
herself ', shakes her hands, smoothes down her gray hair, 
and goes quickly into the house.] Really Ninochka, you 
had better put something on. I'll have Katya get you 
a jacket. Yes? Shall I? 

Nina. Why, Mamma, upon my word! 

Olga. See here, Nina, you'll catch cold, and then 
you'll be coughing like Senya Semyonov. [She goes out, 
accompanied by Katya.] 

Nina [sitting alone on the steps, all bathed in the sun- 
light, smiles gently and brightly at some thought that 
passes through her mind]. Oh, how good! 

She folds her hands behind her head, stretches her 
supple body languidly, looks once more into the blossom- 
ing garden, and walks slowly into the house. 

It is quiet. The sun is shining. Somewhere in the 
garden, the sparrows chirp roguishly. Asya Kachalova 
and Semyonov appear at the gate, Asya in a light dress 
and with a light sunshade in her hand, Semyonov in a 
student's coat buttoned to the chin, notwithstanding the 
warm weather, and with a stout, crooked cane hang- 



War 9 

ing from a button. He carries Asya's booh in his 
hands. 

Semyonov. Volodya is still in bed fast asleep, I sup- 
pose. 

Asya. Why, it's one o'clock already. 

Semyonov. What does he care? Go in and see. 
I'll wait here. If I go in, Piotr Ivanovich will start off 
again on the war of seventy-seven. 

Asya [laughing]. All right. Sit down. I'll be 
back soon. [She mounts the steps lightly and rapidly 
and enters the house.] 

Semyonov [he is homely and thin, and his face is 
drawn by suffering. He sits down on the bench under the 
tree, and coughs drily]. Yes, that's the way. [He 
beats the tip of his shoe lightly with his cane.] It's a 
rotten deal I am getting, though — yes, a rotten deal. 
[He whistles quietly, tapping the ground with his cane, 
and hanging his head. Vladimir Aleksandrovich, back 
from the drill, enters from the street.] 

Vladimir. Ah, Semyon Nikolayevich ! How do you 
do ? All alone here ! Where are the others ? 

Semyonov. I don't know. I've just come. 

Vladimir. Why don't you come in, then? They're 
having coffee, I suppose. 

Semyonov. No, thanks; I'd rather stay here. I am 
bored to death by the war of 1877. 

Vladimir [laughing]. Well, well! I didn't know 
Piotr Ivanovich had made you his victim too. 

Semyonov [with an expression of horror]. I tell you, 
it's frightful. Whew! 

Vladimir. Piotr Ivanovich is an eccentric. Very 
well, then, if you wish to stay here, I'll send Volodya to 
keep you company. [As he goes into the house, he 
calls.] Sidorenko! 

Semyonov whistles quietly and taps his cane. 

Asya [comes out on the terrace, beaming with joy]. 



10 War 

Why, Volodya has really just got up. What a lazy fel- 
low! 

Semyonov [bitterly]. He's a darling! 

Asya [turning a quick glance upon him]. You are 
horrid, Senya. 

Semyonov. Not at all. It only hurts me to see you 
so much in love. 

Asya [bursting out]. What makes you think that? 

Semyonov. For a woman to go off into raptures over 
a man's sleeping till one o'clock in the afternoon is a 
very bad sign indeed. To my mind sleeping till one 
o'clock is just plain dissipation and nothing else. 

Asya [pouting, and going into the garden]. You are 
jealous because other people are in good health and 
you — 

Semyonov [bitterly]. That's cruel, Aleksandra Ivan- 
ovna. 

Asya [flinging herself towards him, penitently]. 
Forgive me, Senya. I did not mean to offend you. 
Don't be angry. 

Semyonov [without looking at her]. I am not angry. 
What business have I to be angry? You are perfectly 
right. It is jealousy — though no wonder a man's 
jealous to see everybody and everything around him 
blooming, rejoicing, making love, and himself dying. 

Asya. Senya, don't talk that way. You mustn't. 

Semyonov. Why? It's true. I am dying; that's all 
there is to it. [Asya looks at him with pity, at a loss 
what to say.] 

Semyonov [without looking at her, and tapping his 
cane as before]. Yes, such is the law of nature, and 
there's no help for it. As a matter of fact, it is all quite 
natural, quite in conformity with the purpose of nature. 
Only it's a damn shame that Nature in following out her 
purpose should have fixed just upon me, the devil take 
it! However, someone has got to die — if not I, then 



War 11 

someone else. And I shouldn't gain so very much if I 
were to live twenty years more. 

Asya. Why are you so bitter against life, Senya? 

Semyonov. What has life given me, Asya? If I 
were as strong as your Volodya, and if I were loved by 
a girl like you, then I too would sing hosannahs. But, 
as it is, it isn't worth while, upon my word! [With an 
unnatural smile. ] Fall in love with me, Asya, yes? 

Asya. What nonsense ! [In her embarrassment, she 
begins to draw circles around her with her sun-shade.'] 

Semyonov. To you it's nonsense ; but to me — 

Asya. It's nonsense to you, too. 

Semyonov. Not quite. In your relations to Volodya, 
I — 

Asya [interrupting him]. First of all, what has that 
got to do with you ? 

Semyonov [with a bitter smile]. Absolutely nothing. 
[After a silence.] And yet it's all extremely unjust. 

Asya. What is? 

Semyonov. Everything. Why are things given to 
one and taken away from another? Here is Volodya, 
and here am I. He has an iron constitution, health, love. 
He has life before him, and he has the joy of living. 
Like all people in good health, he is happy just to be 
alive. And I have nothing except tuberculosis and the 
prospect of dying a perhaps painful death in the near 
future. 

Asya. Again, Senya! 

Semyonov. It's a fact, Aleksandra Ivanovna. You 
can't get away from it. In my opinion, it would be 
fairer by far if you loved, not Volodya, but me. 

Asya. Again! Aren't you sick of it, Senya? 

Semyonov. I am — and have been for a long time 
■ — and yet — [In an unnatural, ironical tone.] It 
would really be much more poetical if, instead of loving 
Volodya, you would cheer and beautify the last days of 



12 War 

my life. This way, what is it? You will marry, bear 
children — 

Asya. You are talking nonsense, Mr. Semyonov, and 
are insolent besides. 

Semyonov [sadly]. I know it! Forgive me, Asya; 
I really feel very ill. 

Asya [softening at once]. I am not angry, but you 
mustn't speak about it. 

There is a silence. Asya bends over towards the 
flowers and smells them. Semyonov looks at her, and, 
as he looks, his face gradually assumes an angry expres- 
sion. 

Semyonov [with a sinister smile]. But my, how des- 
perately in love you are, Asya ! 

Asya [quickly drawing herself up]. This is getting 
to be intolerable, really. 

Semyonov [laughing maliciously]. I am a fool. 
Why should I have asked your pardon? What for? 
You are in love; you enjoy life; you are happy. But 
why should I respect your happiness? Why should I 
be glad of it? [Rising and flourishing his cane.] I 
spit upon your happiness and upon your love; I have 
a right not only to refuse to respect your love; I have 
a right to be jealous of you, to hate you, despise you, 
ridicule you — anything I please. You happy people 
should be thankful to us unhappy ones that we tolerate 
your happiness. — All right. Live, enjoy yourselves, 
love each other, think that the whole world was created 
for nothing but your pleasure, be fruitful and multiply, 
and — be damned ! Goodby ! [He turns abruptly and 
goes out of the garden., Asya looks after him, fright- 
ened and surprised. Volodya enters.] 

Volodya [on the terrace]. Semyonov, where are you 
going? Hello, Asya. [He runs down to her and 
presses her hand hard.] Semyonov! 



War 13 

Semyonov [turning around for a moment, bitterly]. 
Go to the devil! 

He goes out. A silence ensues. 

Volodya. What's the matter? What's happened? 

Asya [embarrassed]. I don't know, really. He is 
so queer. 

Volodya. Yes; isn't it a pity? His sickness has 
soured him. Oh, well, it's nothing, — a momentary fit. 
He gets attacks like that now and then, but he is a fine 
fellow at bottom. [He takes Asya's hand.] How well 
you look today, Asya! 

Asya [laughing]. You tell me the same thing each 
time. 

Volodya [taking her other hand also]. Don't you 
like it? Don't you? [Bending his head and looking 
into her eyes.] Don't you like it, Asya? [Katya comes 
out on the terrace and shakes the tablecloth.] 

Volodya [letting go of Asya's hands and looking at 
Katya; in an unnatural tone of voice]. Have you been 
to the library today? 

Asya [confused]. Yes, I got you — [Frightened.] 
He carried off my books. 

Volodya. Who? 

Asya. Senya. I got the novels for you, but he has 
taken them away. 

Katya goes out. 

Volodya. Never mind; he'll bring them back. 
Come into the garden, Asya. 

Asya [with a shy look]. What for? 

Volodya. Just for a little walk. 

Asya [shyly shaking her head and closing her eyes]. 

Volodya. Why not? 



14 War 

Asya [suddenly lowering her eyes, in an undertone]. 
You'll begin to speak about that again. 

Volodya. About what? [He takes her hand.] 
About what, Asya ? 

Asya [making a slight effort to pull her hand away]. 
Why, about that . . . 

Volodya. What's the use of talking? Don't I love 
you, Asya? 

Asya. Is that love? 

Volodya [passionately]. Yes, of course. You are 
a woman, Asya. Why shouldn't I speak about it? 
Anyway, it's got to come sooner or later. 

Asya [lowering her eyes]. No, it never will. 

Volodya. Yes, it will! It will! [He seizes her 
hand in a tight pressure and draws her to him.] Asya! 

Asya. Volodya, Volodya, you have gone out of your 
mind ! 

Sidorenko enters from the garden with a watering- 
can in his hand; they fly apart. 

Volodya [confused]. What do you want? 

Sidorenko [frightened]. Nothing, Mr. Volodya. 
I — I was going to water the flowers. 

Volodya. You'll do it some other time. Vladimir 
Aleksandrovich wants you. 

Sidorenko. Yes, sir. [He sets the can near the 
flowers and slowly passes into the house.] 

Asya [in a low voice]. Let's go away somewhere, 
Volodya. 

Volodya [slyly]. Where to? 

Asya [blushing and smiling, and looking at him with 
bright, loving eyes]. Well, into the garden, if you want 
to; it's all the same. 

Volodya [rapturously]. My dear girl, my sweet- 
heart ! 

Asya. Only please, Volodya, not like yesterday. . . . 
You mustn't . . . 



War 15 

Volodya. Why mustn't I? 

Asya. You mustn't, and that's all. It's bad. 

Volodya suddenly flings his arms around her and 
hisses her. 

Asya [struggling to free herself and frightened]. 
Volodya, Volodya! You are mad. Let me go! [For 
a moment she remains still, abandoning herself to his 
kisses, then tears herself away, looks at him with happy, 
mist-covered eyes, and runs into the garden, Volodya 
following her.] 

The stage is empty. Sidorenho comes out of the 
house, takes the can, yawns, crosses to the other side, 
and goes out. Nina and Vladimir enter. 

Nina. Where are our young people ? 

Vladimir. I don't know. They were here a few 
minutes ago. They must have gone into the garden. 

Nina [sitting down on the top step]. I feel so 
happy today. Maybe it's because the sun is so bright. 

Vladimir [seating himself next to her on the broad 
stone balustrade]. And maybe it's because I love you. 
[He takes her hand, kisses it, and puts it on his knee.] 
My dear, sweet Nina ! 

Nina [laughing]. We are all dear and sweet. 

Vladimir [after a short silence, stroking her hand]. 
It's good to be living in the world, after all. 

Nina [thoughtfully]. Sometimes too good, even. 

Vladimir. Why too good? 

Nina. Because — it's awful. 

Vladimir. Awful ? 

Nina. Yes, awful! Nothing is lasting. We know 
that things cannot continue the same forever. 

Vladimir [catching her thought]. Oh! 

Nina [seizing his hand and looking at him wide-eyed]. 
So that when you know your happiness will not last 
forever, and that after happiness must come sorrow, 
you begin to feel so awful, awful! 



16 War 

Vladimir. Why think about it, Nina? 

Nina. I don't know; it keeps running in my head. 
I am very, very happy, Vladimir. 

Vladimir [bending down and kissing her fingers]. 
You are bored, darling. You know, I sometimes think 
I am committing a crime by living with you. 

Nina. What are you talking about? 

Vladimir. You see, I am such a simple, uninteresting 
fellow, I must bore you. You should have had a different 
kind of husband. 

Nina [putting her hand over his lips]. Don't talk 
nonsense. 

Vladimir [kissing her hand and gently pulling it 
away]. No, Nina; I'm not joking. Who am I? An 
ordinary, humdrum army officer, that's all, whereas you 
are a fine, clever, beautiful, unusual woman. You should 
have had a talented, educated, rich man for a husband, 
and you ought to live in a large city, meet lots of people, 
and shine in society. Why didn't you marry the Prince, 
Nina? 

Nina [laughing]. Because I married you. That's all. 

Vladimir [a little jealous]. He is much more of 
your sort than I am. 

Nina. Vladimir, I'll get angry. 

Vladimir. I won't any more; I won't. [After a brief 
silence]. Oh, it will be all right. Next fall I'll pass 
the examinations for the Academy, and then we'll move to 
St. Petersburg. Our whole life is still before us; isn't 
it, my little Nina? 

Nina. Of course it is, dear. 

Vladimir [kissing her hand]. My dear, precious 
Nina. We are still going to enjoy life. One must have 
faith, and work; that's all. You know, Nina, when I 
look at you, it seems to me that the sun shines only be- 
cause you are here — [Looking around.] I hear 
someone coming. 



War 17 

Prince Voronetsky and Second Lieutenant Dane come 
in through the wicket gate. 

Vladimir [in involuntary excitement]. The Prince 
again ! 

Nina [hurriedly]. Never mind. I'll say I am not 
feeling well. 

Vladimir [trying to conceal his excitement]. No, 
don't. Why should you? [Rising to meet the guests]. 
How do you do, Prince! How are you, Daue! Is this 
a social call, or have you come on business ? 

Daue. I am just coming from the office. Mak- 
simych asked me to bring this to you. [He hands him a 
paper.] Good afternoon, Nina Petrovna. [He kisses 
her hand.] I've brought you a delightful piece of 
music. We'll play it together. [The Prince silently 
kisses Nina's hand and salutes Vladimir Aleksandro- 
vich.] 

Vladimir [rapidly glancing over the paper]. Daue, 
will you step into my room a moment? I'd like to talk 
to you. Prince, you'll excuse us, won't you? 

Prince. Certainly. 

Vladimir. We'll be back soon, Nina. Come, 
Daue. 

Vladimir and Daue go into the house. During a 
silence Nina remains sitting, with a listless, indifferent 
air, and with her eyes turned away from the Prince. 

Prince [with a smirk.] You seem to be angry with 
me, Nina Petrovna? 

Nina [coldly]. I am not angry. I feel queer; that's 
all. I thought it was all at an end. 

Prince [his face darkening]. But if I can't? 

Nina [coldly, shrugging her shoulders]. I don't 
know. It's your affair. But if you really love me as 
you say, then you ought to spare me ; you ought to leave 
me alone. 

Prince [quickly]. So my presence excites you? 



18 War 

Nina. Not in the sense that you mean. It is simply 
unpleasant. 

Prince. To whom? To you or your husband? 

Nina [haughtily]. Please leave my husband out. 
What has my husband got to do with it? It's very 
disagreeable to me. 

Prince. But why? Do tell me why? 

Nina [excitedly pulling at her handkerchief and not 
looking at him]. You ought to understand, Prince. I 
respect you, hold you in high esteem as a man. But 
really it's time at last that you realized how exceedingly 
unpleasant it is to me [growing irritated] — these con- 
stant explanations, your dogged pursuit of me. It's all 
very tiresome and difficult, really. 

Prince [sadly, twirling his moustache and looking 
sidewise at her]. It's your own fault, Nina Petrovna. 

Nina [in surprise]. My fault? That's strange. 

Prince. Yes, yours. Whose fault is it that no other 
woman exists for me beside you, that I think only of 
you, see only you? If your voice, your walk, the scent 
of your perfumes, even the rustle of your dress turn 
my head and drive me crazy, whose fault is it? Who 
did it? 

Nina. I don't know. I certainly didn't mean to do 
it. 

Prince [bitterly]. It isn't true. 

Nina [offended]. Prince! 

Prince. Yes, it's not true. You are not really what 
you can make yourself seem to be. You are just an 
ordinary woman, but you have acquired the art of seem- 
ing to be very different. Your hair lies on your head as 
on no other woman's, your walk excites, and your dress 
seems part of yourself, so that you produce the impres- 
sion of being altogether out of the ordinary, a woman 
of rare beauty. But tell me frankly, when you stand 
for hours in front of the mirror, when you stretch and 



War 19 

massage and coddle your body, when you move, laugh, 
or dance, do you do it quite naturally, quite uncon- 
sciously, with absolutely no design? 

Nina [confused]. An odd question! You've gone 
out of your mind, Prince. 

Prince. Maybe. I sometimes think so myself. 

Silence, 

Nina [agitated, without looking at him]. Perhaps 
you are right. [The Prince utters a short, queer chuckle. 
Nina gives him a quick, almost frightened look.] All 
right, if you insist; it's partly my own fault. I 
shouldn't have allowed it to come to this. I have enough 
sense not to be insulted at being told the truth, and 
enough courage to admit it. There once was a time 
when I tried to please you. 

Prince [sarcastically]. Once? 

Nina [greatly agitated]. Well, yes, and afterwards, 
too, I didn't always act as I should have. But, after 
all, I am only a woman, — j ust an ordinary woman, 
as you say. I am to blame, — but now it's all at an 
end. 

Prince [somberly]. It cannot end this way, Nina 
Petrovna. 

Nina [in distress]. But understand me, for heaven's 
sake ! — I don't want to — You are torturing me. — I 
love my husband! 

Prince [obstinately]. What do I care about that? 

Nina. But I implore you! [In sudden anger.] 
But what do you mean by this? Can you force me? I 
have a right to demand that you let me alone. 

Prince. This is a question about which I could say 
a lot to you, Nina Petrovna. But your people are com- 
ing. Another time. 

Both are silent. Vladimir and Daue walk down from 
the terrace. 



20 War 

Vladimir. So your mind is quite made up ? 

Daue. Oh, yes; I'll leave the regiment in August and 
enter the Conservatory next fall. 

Vladimir. Well meet in St. Petersburg, then. 

Daue. You'll be in the Academy? 

Vladimir. I hope so. [Walking up to Nina and the 
Prince. ] Here we are again. 

Daue [gleefully]. Well, Nina Petrovna, shall we 
play that piece now ? 

Nina [distracted, not having yet completely regained 
her composure]. What piece? — Oh, yes — of course. 

Daue. I brought the music with me, too. [With 
animation.] I am very anxious to play it for you. It's 
so bright and sunny. 

Prince [glumly]. Daue seems to be in love with 
Nina Petrovna. 

Daue [with quiet ease]. Oh, no. If I am in love 
with anything it's with music. 

Prince. Get out! I don't believe you. 

Daue. Upon my word! You know, I often wonder 
how one can fall in love with women, suffer, and plague 
one's self on account of them, when there is music in the 
world. To my mind, the most beautiful woman in ex- 
istence is not worth a single Beethoven sonata. 

Vladimir. It seems to me that the whole world and 
all that is in it is not worth as much to you as that 
Beethoven sonata. How did you ever come to be an 
officer, Daue? 

Daue. I have always thought it strange myself. 
You see, I never dared to dream that I could be a real 
musician. I thought a real musician was something ex- 
traordinary. I had to choose an ordinary occupation. 
My father was a soldier; so I became a soldier, too. 
But I am going to leave now. My mind is positively 
made up. I'll devote myself entirely to music, and I 



War 21 

think I can still turn out to be something. [He looks 
round, smiling diffidently.'] 

Vladimir. I have no doubt of it. 

Daue la-quiver with impatience]. Well, Nina Pe- 
trovna ? 

Nina. I am ready. — You stay here and listen. 

Vladimir. All right. Will you have a cigarette, 
Prince ? 

Nina and Daue go into the house. 

Vladimir [lighting a cigarette]. He is a remarkable 
man — Daue is. Nothing exists for him outside of mu- 
sic. 

Prince [mechanically, thinking of something else]. 
Yes — he is a talented chap. 

Vladimir. When there was talk of war last year, 
Daue was in despair. It was distressing to see him. 
And it wasn't because he is a coward, but because for 
him to give up his violin is like giving up his life. 
[Musing.] But every one of us has something he holds 
especially dear. 

There is a pause. The tuning of a violin and the 
sounds of a piano along with the tuning are heard com- 
ing from the house. 

Vladimir. Yes, every one has something which he 
values above everything else. And yet, let war be de- 
clared, and we'd all drop what's dearest to us and go out 
to kill and die. Come to think of it, it's queer, isn't 
it? But we'd do it, j ust the same. Yes, we'd go. And 
Daue would be among the first. He'd drop his violin 
and go with the rest. 

Prince [mechanically]. Yes, it's so, of course. 

Olga and Piotr come out on the balcony. 
Olga. The Prince is here, too. Good afternoon. 



22 War 

Ninochka and Daue are going to give us some music. 
Let's listen. 

Piotr [with an air of lively satisfaction]. I like to 
hear them play. I always listen to them with great 
pleasure. Daue is a genuine musician. In our regiment 
there was an officer who — 

Olga [sitting down on the stoop]. Hush, Piotr. 
Listen. 

Daue plays a bright, cheerful melody on the violin, 
accompanied by Nina. All listen. Olga nods her head 
in time to the music. Vladimir smiles with satisfaction. 
But the Prince listens with an expression of pain on his 
face. Asya and Volodya come in at the sound of the 
music. They greet the Prince from a distance, and 
stop short. 

Piotr. Wonderful. What is it? 

Olga [annoyed, motioning him to keep quiet], Sh-sh, 
Piotr ; don't talk. 

The music rises to a high, joyous note and stops. 

All. Bravo! Bravo, Daue! Encore! [There is 
general animation. Asya and Volodya cross over to the 
others.] 

Asya. What a beautiful piece! What is it? I've 
never heard it before. It's exquisite ! Once more, once 
more. [She runs into the house.] Play it again, please, 
Nina Petrovna. 

Olga [reproachfully]. Out here again without your 
cap, Piotr. 

Piotr. For heaven's sake! Let me alone, please. 
Do me the favor, won't you? 

Olga. A favor, yes. And if you catch cold, who 
will look after you? 

Piotr Ivanovich throws up his hands in despair. All 
laugh. 

Vladimir. I didn't know Asya was here. She is a 
dear girl. Nina is very fond of her, too. 



War 23 

Olga. Everybody likes her. 

Vladimir [with a twinkle in his eyes]. And Volodya 
more than anybody else. 

Olga. Thank God for that. We'll marry them, and 
then we'll all live together even more nicely than before. 
We must marry off the Prince, too. You ought to find 
yourself a nice, good girl, Prince, and marry; and then 
you and your wife would be coming to see us and have 
tea with us, and all would be just right. It would be 
so nice. 

Prince [with a scarcely perceptible touch of irony]. 
I am afraid it would turn out to be too nice. 

Dane plays again. All are silent. 



CURTAIN 



ACT II 

A few weeks later. 

It is the dining-room in the house of Piotr. The 
table is spread for a farewell luncheon. A door on the 
right leads to the hallway in which Sidorenho is locking 
and strapping up trunks. The bell rings. Sidorenko 
opens the door, admitting Asya and Semyonov. Asya 
takes off her hat, Semyonov hangs up his overcoat, and 
both enter the dining-room. 

Asya. Nobody in. We had better wait here, Senya. 
I suppose they are not thinking about us now. They 
have enough to occupy them. 

Semyonov. All right, let's wait. [He sits down at 
the window and lights a cigarette.'] 

Asya. Smoking again, Senya? That's bad for you. 

Semyonov. What's the difference? I'll die if I 
smoke, and I'll die if I don't. I can't last much longer, 
no matter what I do. 

Asya nervously paces the room, smoothing down a 
wrinkled corner of the tablecloth, and gazing through 
the window. 

Semyonov. Why are you so nervous, Asya? 

Asya. I don't know. I can't get it into my head. 
It's all so unexpected. 

JSemyonov. Unexpected? Hardly. On the con- 
trary, it was to be expected long ago. Do you think 
the Germans have been preparing for war these forty 
years for their own private satisfaction, eh? 

24 



War 25 

Asya. I didn't mean it that way. You could have 
told it was coming, I suppose; you know about such 
things; but to me it would have been unexpected, no 
matter when it came. I can't imagine how people can 
make up their minds to such a horror. The misery and 
tears it has brought into almost every home! In the 
whole city there isn't one who hasn't some relative or 
some dear friend to take leave of. The soldiers are so 
jolly, and they sing as they go. Even the officers look 
as though they are glad. But my heart contracts when 
I think of the many of them that are doomed to death 
and terrible agony and suffering. And yet you know, 
Senya, I don't feel so sorry for those who leave for the 
front as for those who stay behind. Why, it's terri- 
ble to see those you love go off to war. How many of 
them will never return! Yet every one of them has a 
mother, a wife, children. What must they be feeling 
now ! What will they be thinking all the time ! How 
many tears they will shed! — No; it's terrible, terrible! 
It's easier to die oneself. 

Semyonov. For some it is; for some it isn't. It all 
depends. 

Silence. 

Asya. Poor Nina ! Poor Vladimir ! And how he 
looked forward to entering the Academy next fall and 
going to St. Petersburg and beginning a new life ! Nina 
cries and cries all the time ; she never stops. 

Semyonov. Yes, it's a bad business. Take care that 
you don't have to be weeping, too. 

Asya [stopping short, frightened]. I? What for? 

Semyonov. Volodya might go off to the war, and 
then you'll be left behind, a straw widow. 

Asya. Volodya isn't in the army. 

Semyonov. He'll go as a volunteer. He is a strong, 
healthy chap. All are going. Why shouldn't he? 



26 War 

Asya. You are not going? 

Semyonov. I? I, too? The trouble is, I'd get no 
farther than the first hospital. So it's hardly worth 
while — But why are you so frightened ? 

Asya [confused]. It's impossible. You are saying 
it just to frighten me. 

Semyonov. Not a bit of it. He told me so himself, 
yesterday. And I think it would be a fine thing for him 
to do. Why, even Daue is going. 

Asya [impatiently]. What do I care about Daue? 

Semyonov [spitefully]. There you are. You are 
all heroines until it strikes home. It's Daue, and none 
but Daue, that I'm sorry for. He is worth all the 
Volodyas in the world put together. If Daue should be 
killed, it would be a genuine loss. 

Asya. You are not sorry for the others? 

Semyonov. For some I am; for others I am not. 
For your Volodya, for example, I am not. Upon my 
word, I'm not. 

Asya [indignantly]. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, 
Senya ? 

Semyonov. Why should I be ? It is only to you that 
he is so precious. But for humanity to be minus one 
Volodya is really no great loss. 

Asya. Why, he is your friend. 

Semyonov [darkly]. I have no friends. 

Asya. So much the worse for you. 

Semyonov. Perhaps. But try to look at it objec- 
tively. All right; Volodya remains at home, goes 
through the university, becomes an instructor in mathe- 
matics, marries you, begets children. What boredom! 
Is it worth being born into the world for that? 

Asya. But to be killed or crippled in war, it is ? 

Semyonov. One may get run over by a motor or 
trolley. War at least is life, fight. I'd honestly advise 
him to go. 



War 27 

Asya [her whole body trembles, as she fixes him with 
a look of hatred]. Yes, I know; it's you who put the 
idea into his head, you who advised him to go. It was 
an ugly, mean thing to do. 

Semyonov. Why was it mean? Is it mean to advise 
a man to go and defend his country ? 

Asya [embarrassed]. I didn't mean that — And 
you — [She suddenly covers her face with her hands, 
and goes towards the door.] 

Semyonov. Asya, don't run away. [Asya pays no 
attention to him, and goes out.] Well, as you please. 
[He shrugs his shoulders and absent-mindedly pokes 
his already extinguished cigarette into the ash-tray.] 
Yes, yes; that's the way. — And you, Sidorenko, you are 
going, too ? 

Sidorenko. Yes, sir. 

Semyonov. Aren't you afraid? 

Sidorenko [smiling]. Of course I am. It's no joke. 
But I am sorry more for her as is left at home. 

Semyonov. At home? What home? 

Sidorenko. My home, sir, of course. I have a wife, 
living in the village, and of course she is a foolish 
woman, and she cries and carries on. Naturally, I feel 
sorry. But, just the same, maybe it's all right. We'll 
get back all right, if God means us to. Perhaps it 
looks so awful only from a distance. [He slams the 
trunk lid shut and carries it over to one side. The bell 
rings and he opens the door. Daue enters, in khaki, 
carrying a violin case in his hand. He crosses into the 
dining-room.] 

Daue. Good morning, Semyon Nikolayevich. You 
have come to say good-by to us, too? [Holding out his 
hand to him.] That's fine. I thought I shouldn't have 
a chance to see you again before I left. 

Semyonov. So you are going? 

Daue [laying the violin case on the table, with a 



28 War 

slight shrug]. What's to be done? It's got to be. 

Semyonov. But you were going to leave the army, 
weren't you? 

Daue. Oh, yes, I was. It's too late now, though. 
Fate has decreed otherwise, it seems. [He laughs.] 
Written in the Book of Life, I suppose; or is it in the 
Book of Death? — Besides, I'd feel ashamed — every- 
body going, and I staying here and scraping on the 
fiddle. No; if we are to die, then let's die together. 
[With a sigh.] Yes, I guess I shall have to give 
it up. Here is my violin. I've brought it here to 
ask Nina Petrovna to keep it for me. It's a fine instru- 
ment, very expensive. Maybe I won't get killed, after 
all. 

Semyonov. You won't; I am sure of it. 

Daue. We shall see. And if they do kill me — well, 
what of it? There'll be one poor fiddler the less in the 
world. One must die some time, anyway. I'd only like 
to make sure about the violin. It would be a pity to 
lose it. 

Semyonov. Don't worry about the violin. It will 
be taken good care of here. 

Daue. Thank you. I rely on Nina Petrovna. She 
loves music herself, and she has always treated me well. 

Vladimir comes in, also in khaki, looking sad and pre- 
occupied. He forgets that he has not yet seen Sem- 
yonov, and greets only Daue. 

Vladimir. Good morning, Daue. Well? — I sent 
for you, but you weren't at home. 

Daue. I have been running about the city the whole 
morning, trying to get my affairs in order. Thank God, 
it's all settled now. I sold my piano to Kokhanovsky. 
The only thing left is the violin. 

Vladimir [absent-mindedly]. Oh, the violin. [He 



War 29 

puts out his hand towards the violin, but the next moment 
forgets about it]. What a crowd there was in the church 
today ! 

Semyonov. Good morning, Vladimir Aleksandro- 
vich. 

Vladimir. Oh, excuse me; I didn't see you. Glad 
to see you! Thanks very much for coming. [Recol- 
lecting himself.] But why don't you come into the next 
room, gentlemen? They are all in there — the Prince 
is here. 

Daue. The Prince has come, too? 

Vladimir [with an exaggerated air of indifference]. 
Yes; he has come to see us off. Come, gentlemen. 
[Smiling faintly.] I see you are holding on to your 
violin and won't let go of it. 

Daue. I want to ask Nina to put it away for me 
in some safe place. It's a very good one, and very 
expensive, you know. It would be a pity for something 
to happen to it. 

Vladimir [without hearing what he has said]. Yes, it 
would be a pity. Well, then, come in. [He turns 
round abruptly, and goes out without waiting for them. 
Semyonov and Daue go out after him. There is a pause. 
Katya enters, and places beer and wine on the table. 
Asya and Volodya come in quickly. On seeing Katya, 
they stop short.] 

Volodya. Please leave the room for a moment, 
Katya. 

Katya. Yes, sir. [She goes out through the ante- 
chamber, whispering something to Sidorenko on the 
way, and Sidorenko passes out after her.] 

Volodya [following them with his eyes until they are 
gone]. I have been meaning to have a talk with you 
for some time. Of course you, as a woman, can't un- 
derstand, but, really, a fellow is ashamed to stay at 
home when all are leaving. 



30 War 

Asya [suppressing her tears']. Not all. There is 
Senya. He is staying behind, and so is the Prince. 

Volodya. Senya! Senya is an invalid. And as 
for the Prince, he is a well-fed animal who has had 
a disappointment in love and hugs his tragedy, which 
is dearer to him than the whole world. Asya, you 
won't keep me from doing what I feel I ought to do, 
will you? 

Asya [through her tears]. How can I keep you? 

Volodya [frightened]. Now there! What are you 
crying about, Asya ? Dear me ! Look at you now ! 
Why, it isn't settled yet! It's by no means certain that 
I am going. Maybe I won't go. So far it's nothing but 
an idea. 

Asya [incredulously]. You are only saying that to 
cheer me, but I feel that — [She breaks into sobs.] 

Volodya. Asya! aren't you ashamed? I give you 
my word of honor, I haven't made up my mind yet. 

Asya [with a glimmer of hope]. Are you telling me 
the truth? 

Volodya. Of course I am telling you the truth. 
Upon my word, Asya! Don't cry; it's bad enough as 
it is. 

Asya. I won't, any more. [Smiling through her 
tears.] It's Senya's fault. He frightened me. I know 
it's stupid. Don't be angry with me. 

Volodya. I couldn't be angry with you if I tried, 
Asya. 

Asya. Couldn't you? Then it's all right; then I'll 
get over it soon. You see, it's all gone already. I am 
perfectly calm again. [She laughs through her tears.] 
I am a goose. 

Volodya. No ; you are not a goose — you are a dear. 
[He takes her hands and puts them on his shoulders.] 
Asya, suppose I really went to the war — would you — 
would you in that case agree — h'm — to be my wife ? 



War 31 

Asya. What? [She regards him with tenderness, 
then suddenly kisses him and runs away.~\ 

Volodya. Asya! [Asya runs into Olga in the door- 
way.] 

Olga [distracted, her face discolored from weeping']. 
Where are you going, Asya? We'll have lunch soon. 
Don't go. They are leaving us, Asya. It's terrible, 
isn't it? 

Asya [not yet recovered from the excitement of the 
kiss]. Yes — I'll be back soon. [She disappears 
through the door. Volodya sits down at the window 
and lights a cigarette. Olga goes over to him and gently 
strokes his hair.] 

Olga. Ah, Volodya, Volodya! What is this war 
for ? Can you tell me ? What is it for ? I don't under- 
stand it. Here we were, living quietly, and all of a 
sudden ! — I am so sorry for Nina. 

Volodya takes her hand and kisses it, without reply- 
ing. 

Olga. But maybe nothing will happen, after all? 
Eh, Volodya? 

Volodya. How so? The war has begun already, 
Mamma. 

Olga. I know it has. But maybe they'll settle it 
somehow over there. They'll just take a look at each 
other, and they'll say, " We are fools — that's what we 
are ! " Then they'll break up and go each his own 
way. 

Volodya [involuntarily smiling]. Things don't hap- 
pen that way, Mamma. 

Olga. But it's such a pity, Volodya. It's raining 
and wet outside. They might all catch cold there. God 
forbid! I think the best thing would be if they just 
dropped the whole business and went home. 

Volodya. It's not so simple. 

Olga. But it would be better if it were simple. 



32 War 

Volodya. Oh, better ! That doesn't count. Mother, 
would you let me go? 

Olga. Where ? 

Volodya. There, — to the war. 

Olga [angrily]. What! You too? Aren't there 
enough? What are you talking about? Do you imagine 
I'll let you go? 

Volodya. I'll go of myself. 

Olga [indignantly throwing up her hands]. Don't 
talk nonsense, please. My heart is sore enough as it 
is. However such a thing could have come into your 
head! Just you wait; I'll tell Asya. She'll give it to 
you for talking such rubbish. [Volodya laughs.] He 
laughs ! The idea ! He thinks it's funny, — a matter 
to laugh about. Piotr says that if he were younger he'd 
go, too. What has come over you, for heaven's sake? 
You all act as though you had gone crazy. [She goes to 
the table, aggrieved.] You'd better go and tell them to 
come to lunch. Vladimir has to leave soon, and if they 
don't hurry, he'll have to go away hungry. 

Volodya goes out, and soon returns with Piotr, the 
Prince, Daue and Semyonov. 

Olga. Sit down, gentlemen. Sit down, Daue, my 
boy. I have made you your favorite dish, — cutlets. 
Eat for your health. No one will make cutlets for you 
out there. And then you will remember me. 

Daue. I will not forget you, even without the cutlets. 

Piotr. Where are Nina and Vladimir? 

Semyonov. They'll be here in a moment. 

Olga. Eat; help yourselves, please. Will you have 
some whiskey, Prince ? — Piotr ? 

Nina and Vladimir come in. Nina's eyes are red 
from crying. 

Olga. Sit down here, Ninochka, — Vladimir! 



War 33 

Piotr [picking up a flash], Vladimir, will you have 
a drink? — Will you, Daue? 

Daue. I think I will — although — 

Asya enters quietly and takes a seat at the end of 
the table farthest removed from Volodya. She tries 
not to look at him, 

Olga. Drink, drink. It will keep you in good con- 
dition for the journey. Else you might catch cold — 
God forbid. It's a long way. 

Prince. Are you going on horseback? 

Daue. Yes, to the station. 

Prince. When does the train leave? 

Daue. They say at six o'clock. But I don't believe 
it'll start till much later. 

Prince [making a conscious effort to keep up the con- 
versation']. Strange, a large town iike ours, with sol- 
diers always stationed here, and no railroad in case of 
emergency. Such a state of things can exist only in 
Russia. 

Semyonov. I know a city, one of our government 
capitals, with a population of more than one hundred 
thousand, and the nearest railway station is about sixty 
miles away. 

Piotr. They are going to begin to build a railroad 
here next year. The engineers have already come to 
make the preliminary survey. Yes, nowadays things 
are different. In 1877, when we marched to the fron- 
tier — 

Olga. Now, now! We have heard the story before. 

Piotr. Upon my word! What does it mean? Why 
can't I tell — 

Nina begins to weep quietly; Vladimir throws a quick 
glance at her, and hangs his head. 

Olga. Ninochka, don't! It's enough — Why do 



34 War 

you go on that way, really? You are only upsetting 
Vladimir. 

Nina [hurriedly']. It's nothing — it's only — nerv- 
ousness. [With a queer, nervous smile.'] Yet I can't 
help thinking it's awfully funny. Really, just funny. 

Everyone tries to avoid looking at her, pretending to 
be occupied with preparations for the journey. Vladi- 
mir hangs his head still lower. 

Olga [cautiously]. Shall I give you some medicine 
drops ? 

Nina [starting]. What for? You think I am get- 
ting hysterical, Mamma? No; it's not that. It really 
struck me as funny all of a sudden, that's all. Look at 
Daue, for example. — Where is your violin, Daue? 

Daue. I just meant to ask you to — 

Nina [not listening to him]. Can't you see what a 
terrible comedy it is? Somewhere, in some place, there 
is a Wilhelm, a Germany. You have never seen Ger- 
many, Daue. Neither have I. And yet we are all cry- 
ing, taking leave of each other, breaking up our lives 
completely. Daue is going to the war! Isn't it ridicu- 
lous ? Do you want to go to war, Daue ? 

Daue. It isn't a question of my personal wish, Nina 
Petrovna. Everybody is going. 

Nina [with hectic irritation]. Everybody! What 
do you care about everybody? 

Olga. Don't you think you had better take some 
valerian, Ninochka? I'll bring it to you; will you take 
it, — yes ? 

Nina [with growing unnatural excitement]. Oh, 
Mamma, let me alone! What do you want of me? I 
want to say — 

Olga [with tears]. Ninochka, my dear girl! 

Nina [pushing her mother aside]. I have my life 
to live. I don't interfere with anybody. ( I don't harm 



War 35 

anybody. It may be a small, insignificant life I am 
leading, but I don't want anybody to mar and destroy 
it. No, I don't ! 

Olga [patting her vigorously on the head]. But 
what's to be done, Ninochka? You are not the only 
one. Everybody is hit by it in the same way as you. 

Nina. Is it my fault? That's their business. I 
don't want to have my life sacrificed to anybody. 

Piotr [quite unexpectedly]. Only people without a 
country can speak that way, Nina! 

Olga. Oh, leave her alone, Piotr. As if you don't 
see that — 

Piotr [without listening, and not understanding]. 
Only Russia's enemies can speak that way. [Striking 
the table with his fist.] In such a time as this we have 
no right to speak about our own personal life. We have 
no right to argue and reason. 

Olga. Piotr! Piotr! 

Piotr. We must all go and die, and we mustn't 
reason about it. I am an old man, but, should it become 
necessary, I will go without question, because the whole 
of Russia, my country, needs my life. What are you in 
comparison to the destiny of Russia? I will not permit 
it. No one in my house shall dare to — 

Olga [shouting]. Piotr! 

Nina [in a subdued voice]. I know, I know, Papa 
dear. [She weeps.] 

Olga [vexed and in tears]. Ah, Piotr, you always 
jump in like that! Good heavens! 

Piotr [embarrassed]. What did I do? I am only 
saying that — in a time such as Russia is going through 
now — 

Olga. Oh, go along; stop it. Ninochka, calm your- 
self. You mustn't go on that way. — Vladimir ! 

Nina. I'll soon get over it — I only just — Don't 
pay any attention to me. It will pass away. 



36 War 

A long, oppressive silence follows. 

Semyonov [with studied simplicity]. Will you have 
some beer, Daue? 

Olga. Will anyone have tea? I have had the 
samovar prepared. Prince, will you have a glass of tea? 

Prince. No, thank you. 

There is silence again. Suddenly Nina rises and 
walks out. All remain silent, following her with their 
eyes. 

Olga. You had better go to her, Vladimir. Go on, 
my dear. 

Vladimir. Yes. — Excuse me, gentlemen. 
Semyonov. Certainly, certainly. 

Vladimir gets up and leaves quickly. 

Prince [after a pause]. Yes, it's hard for those who 
have near ones. 

Daue [in an unnaturally buoyant voice]. I am all 
right. I have nothing except my violin. If I get killed, 
it won't play by itself. [He laughs.] 

Semyonov [with an artificial smile]. Yes, that's so. 

Sidorenko [appearing in the door]. The quarter- 
master has just run in, sir, and said that the commander 
has arrived. 

Daue. Already? [He rises quickly and looks at the 
clock.] Yes, it's really time. We are late. I'll have 
to hurry. 

All get up and make hurried motions, not knowing 
what to do. 

Daue. Yes — so we are off. [He hesitates a mo- 



* War 37 

ment, smiles awkwardly, then, with a resolute shake of 
the head.] Well — now — Goodby, Olga Petrovna. 
Thank you for everything. [He kisses her hand.] 

Olga [with tears, kissing him on the forehead], 
Goodby, my boy, goodby. God grant that you return 
home alive and sound. 

Daue [with a show of boldness]. We'll get back, 
with the help of God. Not everybody is going to be 
killed, you know. Goodby, Piotr Ivanovich. Let me 
kiss you — maybe we'll never see each other again. 

Piotr. Now, now! Why goodby? Goodby! 

Daue. All right, goodby. Everything is possible. 
— Well, Volodya, are you going to the station with us? 
That's good. Goodby, Prince. I wish you all the very 
best for yourselves. And now — Where is Nina 
Petrovna? I suppose she has no time to think of me 
now. Tell her goodby for me, and give her my thanks 
for everything. Let her remember sometimes how we 
made music together. I have been meaning to ask her 
to take care of my violin. It's a very good, very ex- 
pensive violin. 

Olga. Don't worry about the violin, Daue. We'll 
keep it safe for you. You just come back safe and 
sound. You are going to perform some fine concerts 
for us still with Ninochka, I am sure. 

Daue [with a faint smile]. Hardly. It's all over 
with my music. [Throwing up his hands.] Oh, well, 
it's all the same. I haven't said goodby to you yet, 
Aleksandra Ivanovna. I wish you a happy life, Miss 
Aleksandra. 

Asya remains silent, weeping. 

Daue. What else was it I wanted to say? No — 
nothing. Goodby once more. 

All. Goodby! Goodby! A safe return! 



38 War 

Daue [stopping abruptly at the door, with an embar- 
rassed smile]. You won't laugh at me, will you? — 
I'd like to take another look at it. [He opens the violin 
case, but instantly slaps it shut again. Flinging up his 
hands.] Oh, nonsense. Goodby for good now. Thank 
you all. 

He walks out rapidly, followed by the others, and the 
dining-room is emptied. Outside on the steps are 
heard the calls of, " Goodby ! Goodby ! Come back 
soon ! " Then the door falls to with a bang, and there 
is silence. Only Sidorenko remains on the stage, in the 
hallway. 

There is a pause. Vladimir enters hurriedly and 
passes directly to the hallway. Sidorenko hands him his 
cap and hangs his sword on him. Vladimir takes a step 
toward the door, stops, stands still for a moment, then 
quickly returns to the dining-room. Nina rushes in and, 
silently, without tears, flings herself on his neck. 

Vladimir. Nina! Nina! My darling! My own! 
[He repeatedly strokes her head and kisses her hair, and 
then looks about helplessly. Asya quietly re-enters the 
room and rushes towards them.] 

Vladimir. Asya, help ! — Ninochka ! 

Asya holds Nina back. Vladimir tears himself away 
from her embrace and goes out quickly, almost running. 
Nina pushes Asya aside and, with a piercing shriek, 
flings herself after her husband. She staggers and 
drops into the arms of Asya and Sidorenko. 



CURTAIN 



ACT III 

The time is two months later. 

The scenery is the same as in the second act. It is 
evening. The lamp is burning. The samovar is on the 
table. Olga Petrovna is sitting at the table near the 
samovar; on the opposite side, Piotr Ivanovich with 
his own special tea cup and a newspaper before him. 
Asya is giving tea to a little boy and a little girl, the 
children of an officer hilled in the war. Semyonov is 
sitting at a small table aside from the rest, smoking. 
On the wall is a large war map with tiny flags of differ- 
ent colors stuck into it. 

Asya. Sonya, do you want some more? 

Sonya [quietly']. Thank you. 

Asya. Kolya, you mustn't rattle the spoon. Drink 
nicely. 

Olga. Sonya, how is your mother? Is she well? 

Sonya. Yes, thank you. 

Kolya [gleefully]. Mamma cries all the time. Her 
eyes are we-ed, we-ed, like a lobster's. 

Asya [with a faint smile]. Lobsters' eyes aren't 
red. 

Kolya. Aren't they? What color are they? 

Asya. Black. 

Kolya. Black? Why are they black? 

Asya. Because God made them so. 

Kolya. Why did God make them so? 

Asya [patiently]. Because it's the way He thought 
they ought to be. 

39 



40 War 

Kolya. Ought to be? 
Asya. Yes, ought to be. 

Kolya. Our Jerry has yellow eyes, like a cat's. 
Asya. All right, drink your tea, drink — Sonyechka, 
will you have some jam? 
Sonya. Thank you. 

There is a silence. 

Olga. It's a month today since Volodya left. I 
wonder where he is now, poor boy ? 

Another silence ensues. Then the bell rings. Sem^ 
yonov quietly steps into the antechamber and opens the 
door. The Prince enters, takes off his overcoat, and 
walks into the dining-room. 

Piotr. Ah, the Prince! 

Prince [he goes round the table and shakes hands 
with everyone; when he comes near Sonya, she jumps 
off the chair and makes a courtesy]. It's so dreary 
everywhere one doesn't know where to go to or what to 
do with oneself. I hope you are not mortally sick of 
me, Olga Petrovna. 

Olga. How, Prince, what makes you say that? Of 
course we are not. We are always very glad to see 
you. Ninochka is in better spirits, too, when you are 
around. She is so dejected, poor girl. 

Prince. Is she well? 

Olga. How can she be well when she doesn't eat 
anything? She keeps brooding and brooding. Will 
you have a glass of tea, Prince? 

Prince. Yes, thank you. [He takes the glass.] 
It's cold and cloudy outside. The city is all dead, no 
life at all. Have you had word from your people 
recently ? 



War 41 

Olga. There was a letter from Vladimir yesterday, 
but nothing from Volodya for a whole week. He used 
to write every day. Then the letters suddenly stopped. 
Asya is beginning to worry fearfully, and I am terribly 
worried too. Something might happen, God forbid. It 
doesn't take long to catch cold. Piotr Ivanovich reads 
the papers every day, but I am afraid to. When I look 
at a newspaper and see all the killed and wounded and 
lost — lost with no trace of them left behind — I feel 
as if I had been knocked in the head with a club. 

Prince. I think if anything happened they would 
let you know. And as to your not getting any letters, 
that's not surprising. 

Piotr. They have nothing to write; so they don't 
write. We here have nothing to do; but out there they 
have no time for trifles — they have work to do. 

Olga. I know, Piotr, but yet — there is Asya — she 
is worrying herself to death. I am not speaking about 
myself, though I am so, so sorry for them. Piotr Ivan- 
ovich is just trying to put up a bold front. Don't let 
him fool you. I know he can't sleep nights. He keeps 
pacing the room to and fro, to and fro like a pendulum. 

Piotr [angrily]. It's insomnia, that's all. You 
know very well I always suffer from insomnia at this 
time of the year. 

Olga. Don't be telling stories, Piotr. Insomnia? 
Nonsense ! 

Silence. 

Prince. You are still taking care of the children, 
Aleksandra Ivanovich? 

Asya [quietly]. Yes. 

Olga. Taking care of the children! She should 
have been taking care of her own by this time. Upon 
my word, I cannot understand you! Are you crazy, 
all of you, or what ! What nonsense to marry and then 



42 War 

part! Neither a wife nor a widow! The idiocy of it 
passes my comprehension. 

Asya. I wanted it myself, Mother. 

Kolya [in a ringing voice]. My father got killed in 
the war. The Germans killed him. 

Prince [startled by the unexpectedness of the child's 
remark] . What? 

Asya [hurriedly]. Drink your tea, Kolya; drink, 
it'll get cold. 

Kolya. I am drinking. 

Asya. Go on, go on, drink. 

There is silence, during which Nina comes in quietly. 

Nina. The Prince? I didn't know you were here. 
Why didn't you let me know, Mamma? 

Prince. I've just come. 

Nina [seating herself at the table opposite the 
Prince], What a long, dreary day this has been. 

Olga. Don't think so much about it and it won't 
seem so long to you. 

Nina [with a faint smile]. I should be glad not to 
think, Mamma, but it thinks itself. 

Silence. 

Prince. I have a piece of sad news. Daue's body 
arrived at the station today. 

At this remark all raise their heads. Olga Petrovna 
wipes her eyes with her handkerchief. Piotr Ivanovich 
frowns and buries his face in the newspaper. There is 
silence. 

Nina. Poor Daue! An end to all his music now. 
You remember how he had set his heart on going to 
Petrograd to study, and how he had made all his plans 
for giving up the army and following his great ambition ? 

Prince. Fate decreed differently, it seems. 



War 43 

Semyonov [with heat]. What Fate? A monstrous 
insane outrage, not Fate! 
Prince. Yes — of course. 

Silence. 

Olga. You remember, Asya, how he came back and 
wanted to take a last look at his violin? "If I get 
killed/' he said, " the violin won't play by itself." 
[Sobbing.] God! God! What is happening in the 
world ! 

Semyonov. A lot of stupidity and wickedness is hap- 
pening. 

Silence. 

Nina. We knew a week ago that Daue had been 
killed. But what does it mean - — "Killed?" It's so 
hard to grasp the significance of it. Only now I seem 
to realize what it implies when I know that he has been 
brought here, that somewhere at the station there is a 
car and that in a coffin Daue is lying — that he is lying 
there and doesn't know we are talking about him. It's 
so heart-rending ! How terrible war is ! 

Prince. Yes, it is terrible. And yet there is a great 
deal of tragic beauty in it. I don't know how it is, but 
I feel drawn to the war myself; something pulls me to it. 

Semyonov [in an undertone]. It seems to be a very 
mild form of attraction. 

Asya [reprovingly]. Senya! 

Prince [who has not caught Semyonov 9 s remark]. 
What's that, Semyon Nikolayevich? 

Semyonov. Nothing, nothing. 

Prince. What is life here? It is not even a game; 
it is just a long-drawn-out agony. We don't live here; 
we just exist. All our interests, our little troubles and 
preoccupations, are so trivial, so insignificant. Our ac- 



44 War 

tions are commonplace. But there, face to face with 
death, the everyday shell drops off, and man becomes 
that which he ought always to be — the tragic bearer of 
heroic ideas. 

Semyonov [to himself}. He's going it hard. 

Asya shakes her head at him reproachfully. 

Prince [contemplatively}. It may seem strange, 
perhaps, but I honestly envy those who are in the thick 
of it. There is movement, fight, real life out there. 

Nina. You say you envy them, but my heart bleeds 
for them. Hungry, cold, always facing death and pain 
and misery; what sort of life can it be! It is one con- 
tinuous agony, not life. How many killed, how many 
maimed, how many widows and orphans, how much 
wretchedness and suffering! And all this on account 
of one man's whim. What an injustice! What an 
atrocity! No, my whole being revolts against this 
butchery. 

Silence. 

Nina [disconsolately}. It's so hard! My God, it's 
so hard ! I don't know — maybe I am a silly woman, 
but I began to sew underwear for the wounded soldiers. 
I worked till I got so tired I couldn't work any more. 
And suddenly I had the feeling that all that didn't make 
out my life; it didn't represent me; it didn't make me 
forget my own cares and experiences. I mean to take 
up work in the hospital. I'll try. I don't know if my 
nerves will stand it. And so I drift from one thing to 
another, torn out of my element. No one needs me; 
I am good for nothing. The most terrible thing is that 
I hardly ever get any letters, and when I do get them, 
they have been so long coming that they have lost almost 
all significance. I read, see the familiar hand, and 



War 45 

think: But this letter was written twelve days ago. 
Maybe — [Her voice quivers.] 

Piotr. Cowardice and nothing else. It's painful to 
listen to. The wife of a Russian officer ought to take it 
differently. 

Nina [with a mournful, submissive smile]. Ah, 
Papa, what sort of officer's wife am I? I am a wife, 
that's all — an insignificant woman whose husband is all 
in all to her. 

' • Piotr [shrugging his shoulders]. There! There! 
There! And I think — 

Olga. Piotr ! 

Piotr. But if I can't listen to these everlasting 
whinings and lamentations ! [Drawing up his shoul- 
ders.] Why, the idea! A man is defending his coun- 
try, is fulfilling his sacred duty; and what does his wife 
think about ? Nothing but how to take away his courage 
and honor. She wants to keep him in the nursery and 
bedroom. 

Olga. Piotr ! 

Nina. I don't want that, you know it, Papa. 

Piotr [brushing the remark aside, and rising and 
flourishing the newspaper in the air, without addressing 
anyone in particular]. I can imagine the letters she 
writes to him. I'll tell you plainly that if I had had a 
wife like that in my time I'd simply have turned her out 
of the house. Yes, I'd have turned her out — turned 
her out. [To Olga.] Oh, let me alone. I say it be- 
cause it's the way I feel about it. It's abominable! 

He shrugs his shoulders, waves the newspaper and 
goes out. There is silence. Nina weeps quietly. The 
children look with fright from one to another. The 
Prince remains sitting with downcast eyes. Semyonov 
puffs vigorously at his cigarette. 

Olga. There. It's always that way. Don't cry, 



46 War 

Ninochka. Don't you know your father? He himself 
suffers, more than anybody else, but he carries on that 
way just to relieve his feelings a little. It seems to do 
him good. 

Nina. I know, Mamma dear. 

Asya. Well, children, have you had enough? 

Sonya. Yes, thank you. 

Asya. Come, then, I'll take you home. It's time to 
go to bed. Your mother will be worrying about you. 
Senya, will you go with us? 

Semyonov [rising]. Yes, of course I will. 

Asya. Say goodby now, children, and come. 

Sonya and Kolya walk up to each one in turn, Sonya 
making a pretty courtesy, and Kolya awkwardly scrap- 
ing his feet. Olga Petrovna kisses them. Then Asya 
takes them into the anteroom, puts on their hats and 
coats, and they go out, followed by Semyonov. 

Olga. Poor children. They are orphans now — 
and with no means of support, either. His salary was 
all they had to live on. She'll get a pension. But it's 
not like having a father. 

Prince. Why does Aleksandra Ivanovna look after 
them ? 

Olga. Out of pity. She has a good heart, that's 
why. The mother is still crazy with grief. She does 
nothing but cry the whole day long. If Asya hadn't 
looked out for the children, they would have had to 
go to bed without supper, I suppose. No, Prince, don't 
talk to me about the beauty of war. Maybe I don't 
understand, but I cannot see anything beautiful in it. 
No, no, your war is ugly. [She waves her hand depre- 
catingly, lays her napkin on the table, and goes towards 
the door. As she passes Nina, she strokes her head.] 
Don't be offended by what Papa says ; Papa is old. He 
is troubled and is grieving for you and Volodya; so he 



War 47 

shouts — he doesn't know what about himself. — You 
stay here and have a chat together. I'll go and see 
about supper. [She goes out. There is a long silence. 
Somewhere a clock strikes the hour of nine.'] 

Nina. What an awful evening! It's so dreary. In 
my room you can hear the wind whine in the garden. 
My heart feels so heavy I seem scarcely able to breathe. 
Why do I feel so today, Prince? 

Prince. I don't know. Your nerves are all un- 
strung. 

Nina. Maybe. But if you knew how hard it is ! I 
am so glad you came. The whole day I am by myself. 
You know what my father is like, and Mamma and Asya 
have their own troubles. So I wander about alone all 
the time, like a loafer. There is no one to talk to, no 
one to pour one's heart out to. Nobody knows; nobody 
understands. [She folds her hands on the table with a 
look of distress and lets her head drop on them.'] 

Prince [bending over across the table towards her 
and gently touching her hands]. You know you have 
no friend more devoted than I. 

Nina [lifting her head and unconsciously drawing 
back her hands]. I know it, but I can't speak to you 
about it. 

Prince. Why not? 

Nina [with a sad smile]. Because I know it can't be 
pleasant to you to hear me speak — about him. I know 
you won't say anything, but I can see that every word I 
say pains you. 

Prince [with a tragic air]. But what's to be done, 
Nina Petrovna? Of course I am not going to dissemble 
and lie. I love you, and now that you are so unhappy 
and lonely I love you still more. Of course it costs me 
a terrific effort to understand your feelings when you 
mention Vladimir Aleksandrovich, and when I see you 
suffering so on his account. But I love you so much that 



48 War 

I suffer what you suffer. I strive to forget that you are 
suffering for a man who stands between me and you, and 
sometimes I actually succeed. I see that you are suffer- 
ing, and God knows that if it were possible I would go 
there and take his place and let him come to you. 

Nina [putting out her hand to him across the table~\. 
Thank you, Prince. [He kisses her hand reverently 
and immediately lets it go. There is silence.] 

Nina [musingly]. Who knows? Maybe after all, 
if — [She breaks off abruptly and remains silent.] 

Prince [quickly]. What? If what? 

Nina [with averted gaze]. Nothing. [She gets up, 
goes to the window and, leaning her face against the 
pane, looks out into the dark night.] How dark it is! 
Only the one little light out there! One might think it 
was late at night, not early in the evening. 

Prince [coming up to her]. Nina Petrovna, what 
were you going to say ? 

Nina [starting and trembling without turning 
around] . Nothing. 

Prince [in a tremulous voice]. I implore you. It 
seemed to me that — you can't imagine what it would 
mean to me. Nina Petrovna, one word! [Nina turns 
slowly around, looking at him with strange, wide-open 

Prince [stretching out his arm towards her], I beg 
of you, Nina ! For God's sake ! 

Nina, smiling queerly, puts out her arms to him and 
lays her hands on his shoulders, drawing him lightly 
towards her and looking long and fixedly into his eyes 
with an enigmatic expression on her face. Then she 
pushes him back, covers her face with her hands, and 
turns her back to him again. 

Prince. Nina Petrovna, what does it mean? Nina? 

Nina [without turning around, hoarsely]. It means 
that I am a low, ugly, depraved woman. 



War 49 

Prince. Nina Petrovna! 

Nina [imploringly]. Leave me alone! Go. For 
heaven's sake leave me! I don't know myself what is 
the matter with me. 

There is silence. The Prince looks intently at Nina, 
and she, as though feeling his gaze upon her, bows her 
head lower and lower as if something were pressing it 
down. The Prince suddenly flings his arms rudely 
around her shoulders and forcibly swings her toward 
him, looking into her eyes with wild passion. 

Prince. Nina — you — you love me too ? 

Nina does not resist him, but merely closes her eyes 
and shakes her head faintly in denial. 

Prince. No? — You don't love me? — Then what 
does all this mean? 

Nina. I told you. 

Prince. What? I don't understand you. 

Nina. I — 

Prince [almost shaking her]. What? — What? — 
Don't torture me. You do not love me? No? 

Nina [she opens her eyes; they look strange and as 
though covered with a mist]. No. [Suddenly she 
pushes him away almost venomously and walks past him, 
stopping at the door with her back toward him.] I love 
nobody. [She turns around with a quick gesture and 
faces the Prince with a look half of fright and half of 
detestation.] I told you I was a low, depraved crea- 
ture. [Rapidly.] You know what? — I love my hus- 
band with all my heart, with all my soul. I am all out 
there, with him — I think only of him — I don't want 
you ; you disgust me. But if you wanted to, I — 

Prince [making a step towards her]. Nina! 

Nina [drawing back in terror and putting out her 
hands as though for protection]. Prince! for God's 
sake! 



50 War 

Prince [coming quickly to her]. Why do you torture 
me and yourself? 

Nina [pressing against the door post] . It isn't I — 
I don't want this. 

Prince [seizing her outstretched arms and pulling 
her to him], Nina! 

Nina [struggling fiercely to twist her hands free]. 
Let me go! How dare you! Let me go! [She tears 
herself away, looking savagely at him out of the corners 
of her eyes, and rushes out, banging the door after her.] 

Prince [remains standing a long time with head 
hanging as if dazed. Then he turns around and sees 
Semyonov, who has entered unobserved, standing at the 
door] . Ah ! 

Semyonov [with derision in his voice]. Yes. That's 
right. Not bad for a beginning. 

Prince. What ? 

Semyonov [in the same tone of derision]. Nothing. 
[He sits down with a cool, leisurely air and pulls out the 
cigarette case from his pocket.] On general principles 
it's contemptible enough. And yet, after all — animal 
instincts — law of nature. . . . 

Prince [controlling himself]. What do you mean? 

Semyonov. Just what I say. 

Prince [haughtily]. What precisely? 

Semyonov. You deign to be interested? Very well, 
as you please. — Naturally, a young, healthy, good-look- 
ing woman — her husband driven away to the war — it's 
a plain case. But if you wish to know my opinion of it, 
I'll tell you. I don't like your role at all. 

Prince [contemptuously]. No? 

Semyonov [with perfect composure]. No. Imagine! 
I'll even go further and say it isn't a nice role. And 
inasmuch as the expression on your face is so plain as to 
admit no doubt of its meaning, I have no objection to 
telling you what I mean. 



War 51 

Prince [curtly]. I demand an explanation. 

Semyonov [sardonically]. You can't demand any- 
thing of me, Your Excellency, for I would send you 
straight to hell. 

Prince [making a step forward]. How dare you? 

Semyonov [coolly]. Sh! Sh! 

Prince. But I insist. 

Semyonov [mockingly]. Insist! Oh, well, what's 
the difference? [In an even voice, pronouncing every 
word with deliberate emphasis.] You know very well 
that she does not love you, that she loves her husband. 
You simply excite her as a man. Therefore, even should 
you succeed in catching the right moment, I tell you 
frankly I shouldn't envy you. Your position would be 
an extremely humiliating one. 

Prince [he shrugs his shoulders and, laughing con- 
temptuously, goes to the table and sits down]. All this 
is very interesting, and I hope to talk to you about it at 
another time and in another place. 

Semyonov [scowling and tilting his head to one side]. 
What? A duel? No, no. Drop that talk. It's true 
these are war times. Still I don't propose to give up my 
life for anything like this. It will have to be something 
more interesting. 

Prince [contemptuously]. You decline? 

Semyonov. Yes, I decline. Just fancy! 

Prince. Oh, well, you will change your mind. 

Semyonov. No. This is final. I assure you, I 
haven't the slightest inclination to fight with you, and 
if you are going to try to force me by petty annoyances, 
then let me tell you again that, after all, these are war 
times and I have the proper kind of weapon to put an 
end to them forever. 

Prince [sneeringly]. A revolver? 

Semyonov. Yes, a revolver. And not a bad re- 
volver, either; a present from the late Daue. [Chang- 



52 War 

ing his tone.] And if you will permit yourself to badger 
me in any way, I promise you I'll shoot your head off as 
calmly and deliberately as I am talking to you now. 

Prince. We shall see. 

Semyonov. We shall see. 

Prince. At any rate, I shall get ahead of you, Mr. 
Semyonov. 

The bell rings. Semyonov rises and slowly goes to 
the door and opens it. He is heard speaking to someone. 
Then the door shuts and Semyonov returns, looking trou- 
bled and uneasily eyeing a telegram which he holds in his 
hand. 

Prince. I want to tell you only this — 

Semyonov [frowning fiercely]. Let's stop this con- 
versation for the present. We'll finish it some other 
time. Here is — a telegram. [He goes over to the 
door and half opens it.] Piotr Ivanovich! Ho, Piotr 
Ivanovich ! — What's the matter with them out there ? 
Are they asleep ? — [He looks at the telegram.] Do 
you know what I think, Prince? 

Prince [still contemptuously]. What do you want? 

Semyonov [ignoring his sneer] . I don't like this tele- 
gram. 

Prince [alarmed, rising]. What is it? 

Semyonov. It's from out there — addressed to Piotr 
Ivanovich direct. [Speaking quickly.] I think we 
ought to open and read it first. 

Prince. But — 

Semyonov [impatiently]. What "but"? The cir- 
cumstances call for it. I don't do it out of curiosity. 
Suppose something has happened? Then we can at 
least prepare them, break the news as gently as possible. 
Who knows what fool concocts these telegrams, anyway? 
[He opens the telegram, reads it, and then, lifting his 
face, which has turned strangely grave, holds it out to 



War 53 

the Prince.] It has come. [He steps quickly to the 
•wall and remains standing there with his back turned.'] 

Prince [after rapidly glancing over the telegram, and 
looking at Semyonov with an expression of horror]. 
Good God! What's to be done now? What does it 
mean ? 

Semyonov [he remains standing in the same position 
with his back to the Prince. He speaks hoarsely]. 
What? Killed! That's all! — They've killed him. 
[He turns around swiftly, snatches the telegram from 
the Prince's hands and sticks it in his pocket]. My! 
How stupid! Why are you standing there like that? 
Go tell Nina Petrovna. She'll know how to manage it 
better than we — and I'll try to break it to Asya. — 
Well? Why aren't you going? Go, please. 

The Prince obediently crosses over to the door and 
goes out. 

Semyonov. There! Volodya, too! The devil! 

He bites his moustache, and remains standing in the 
middle of the room, sunk in thought. — A shrill, piercing 
cry is heard from a distance inside the house. Semyonov 
trembles, lets his moustache drop out of his mouth, and 
listens. The cry is repeated. Hurried steps are heard 
and the Prince runs in. 

Prince. She heard me tell her. Do you hear? 
How terrible ! 

Semyonov. Who? Olga Petrovna? 

Prince. Yes — I told Nina — she heard me. I 
think we must call a doctor. 

Semyonov. What's the good of a doctor? The 
devil ! — And Asya will be here any minute, too. 

The wild shriek draws nearer; the door opens noisily 
and Olga Petrovna rushes in with her gray hair undone, 



54 War 

looking pitiful and terrible. Nina comes running after 
her, weeping, distracted and trying to quiet her. 

Nina. Mamma! Dear Mamma! For Heaven's 
sake! 

Olga. Where is it? Where? It is not true — not 
true ! — Killed ! — It's not true ! — Volodya killed ! — 
Who said it? [She reels and falls. Nina and the 
Prince catch her and put her in a chair. Nina puts her 
arms around her neck, kisses her, strokes her head and 
cries.] 

Nina. Mamma! My dear little mother! Mamma! 
You mustn't. — My darling mother. 

Piotr [entering, and with quick, firm steps crossing 
directly over to Olga. His face is gravely solemn and 
seems as though turned into stone], Olga! 

Olga [flinging herself at him and clutching his 
hands]. Piotr — they are lying, aren't they? Volodya 
killed ! — Piotr ! [She seizes him with her hands, but 
instantly pushes him back and tears herself away from 
Nina's embrace.] It isn't true. — It cannot be. — Leave 
me alone ! — [She breaks away from her seat, runs into 
a corner, goes down on her knees and, as in a fit of mad- 
ness, begins to bow her head rapidly to the ground.] 
Lord, Lord, Lord ! — Lord ! 

Piotr Ivanovich drops heavily on a chair near the 
table and covers his face with his hands. Asya appears 
at the door, in a hat and jacket, pale and frightened. At 
sight of Olga Petrovna kneeling and bowing she stops as 
though anchored to the spot and her hands drop limply 
to her sides. 

Olga [bowing her head]. They have killed Volodya! 
Volodya ! — Oh, Lord, Lord, help ! — Help, O Lord ! — 
[Seeing Asya.] Asya! — Asya darling! Our Volodya 
is no more. They have killed our Volodya ! [Crawling 



War 55 

to her on her Jcnees, she takes both Asya's hands and 
kisses them again and again.] Killed! Asya, Asya 
darling ! — No more Volodya. — O Lord, Lord, Lord ! 

Asya stands absolutely rigid, wide-eyed, and staring 
blankly before her. Nina sits with her head on the 
table, sobbing. The Prince and Semyonov stand aside 
with bowed heads. Piotr Ivanovich sits at the table, his 
face buried in his hands, but dry-eyed. 



CURTAIN 



ACT IV 

It is golden autumn. The house and garden are the 
same as in the first act. Occasionally dead leaves de- 
tach themselves from the trees, and float circling to the 
ground. Through the trees, now bare, are seen the 
roofs of houses and the churches of the little town. 
Piotr Ivanovich, wearing an oldish military cloak and 
a cap pulled down over his ears, is sitting with bent 
back on the balustrade. Near him are a paper and a 
cigar-case, but he neither reads nor smokes; he stares 
blankly straight ahead of him. For a considerable 
while he remains alone on the stage in this pose. 
Then the Prince and Nina appear on the terrace. 
Nina is not in mourning costume, but smartly and ele- 
gantly dressed as though for some festive occasion. Her 
face is animated and beaming. At sight of her father 
she turns serious, though not without a slight effort. 

Nina. Papa, sitting alone again ! [She seats herself 
beside him and puts her arm around him.] You'll get 
sick if you go on this way. It's enough, Papa. It can't 
be helped. You can't bring him back to life. 

Piotr Ivanovich [assuming a bold and care-free air~\. 
Oh, I just came out to get some fresh air. The weather 
is splendid. — I have been reading the paper. — Lemberg 
has been taken. — Have you read it, Prince ? 

Prince [hesitatingly] . Why — er — yes — of course. 

Nina [pityingly, stroking him on the shoulder]. 
Papa, Lemberg was taken long ago. Have you forgot- 
ten? 

Piotr Ivanovich [with an air of interest]. Was it? 
When? I didn't know. 

56 



War 57 

Nina [with a stealthy, significant look at the Prince], 
You have simply forgotten, Papa. 

Piotr Ivanovich. Maybe. 

Nina [heaving a deep sigh]. Of course you have. 
You are not doing right, staying away by yourself all 
the time and avoiding people. It will hurt you. 

Piotr Ivanovich [with sudden animation]. It's 
nothing — a trifle. — You remember Volodya's letter 
from Yaroslav, Nina? 

Nina. Yes, yes, I remember. You mustn't speak 
about it, Papa. 

Piotr Ivanovich [bowing his head]. Yes, of course. 

Nina. You are only exciting yourself. What can be 
done? Volodya is not the only one — lots of people 
have lost their lives. 

Piotr Ivanovich [listlessly]. Yes, lots, lots. — 
What can be done ? 

Prince [in an effort to console him]. After all, your 
son Volodya died an enviable death. 

Piotr Ivanovich looks with fright at the Prince as 
though afraid he might make some tactless, uncalled-for 
remark, then quickly lowers his eyes. 

Prince. He died like a hero. That ought to be some 
comfort to you after all. An officer who was wounded in 
the same action told me that if it hadn't been for your 
son the whole regiment would have been annihilated. 

Piotr Ivanovich [with a queer, sickly frown]. Yes, 
yes — I know — yes. 

Prince. He said that in spite of the terrible fire, 
Volodya never once went down into the trench. He re- 
mained above, calmly directing the firing. 

Piotr Ivanovich. Yes, yes — I know — yes. 

Prince. At last the Austrians concentrated almost 
their entire fire on his division. And when he was 
wounded, he told his comrades he was happy to die like 
that. It was a heroic death, say what you will. Im- 



58 War 

agine the strength of soul required to die feeling happy in 
the cause of one's death. It denotes the highest will 
power, the sublimest enthusiasm, and you have a right to 
be proud of your son's memory. 

Piotr [rising with a nervous movement and picking 
up now the paper, now the cigar-case, and letting them 
drop]. Yes, yes — I know — he died a heroic death — 
proud of his memory — yes, yes. [Suddenly straighten- 
ing himself and flourishing the newspaper in the air.~\ 
I know myself that Volodya died the death of a hero. 
Yes, sir, I know it; I know he couldn't have done 
otherwise! Yes, a hero, a hero! What's the use of 
talking about it? No use! No use, at all! Excuse 
me! . . . [He wraps the cloak nervously around him, 
presses the newspaper to his chest, and quickly walks 
into the house. Nina and the Prince, a little embar- 
rassed, follow him with their eyes. There is silence.] 

Nina [quietly]. You must pardon my father, Prince. 
Volodya's terrible death has made a perfect baby of him. 
He is only the wreck of his former self. 

Prince [deferentially and sadly], I understand, 
Nina Petrovna. 

Nina [sitting down on the balustrade where her father 
had been sitting]. Papa cannot endure to hear anything 
about Volodya. You know, he never wept a tear. He 
just keeps quiet. And his silence is more horrible than 
the worst crying and sobbing. It is so awfully hard to 
look at him, so hard! Good God, when will this war 
end? When will it end? And will those who caused it 
never be brought to account for all the tears, all the 
misery ? 

Prince. I think they will. 

Nina. Is it possible that after all these horrors there 
will again be wars and people will again die and be 
killed? Is it possible that the people will never come 
to their senses, never understand what they are doing? 



War 59 

Prince. I don't think they ever will. 
There is silence. 

Nina [musingly]. Semyonov said that war can never 
be done away with because war is not opposed to human 
nature, but on the contrary is quite in keeping with hu- 
man nature. Can that be true? 

Prince. Oh, well, there may be a difference of 
opinion as to that. 

Nina. I don't see how there can be any difference of 
opinion. [With heat.] If it were as Semyonov says, 
then I think the human race ought simply be wiped off 
the face of the earth. It would have no right to exist. 

The Prince shrugs his shoulders in indecision. There 
is a pause. 

Nina. What beauty all around ! See how the leaves 
are falling. And the sun is shining as though it were 
afraid it might interfere with the beauty and the still- 
ness. [She laughs.] I am happy, Prince. Mamma 
thinks me shocking for having given up mourning; she 
says I must have forgotten Volodya. But how can I 
meet Vladimir in a black dress? I can't think without 
tears of poor Volodya, who lies buried somewhere out 
there in a strange, horrible soil, — but still I am happy. 
I may be an egotist, I may be a bad woman, but I am 
happy. When I received the telegram from Vladimir, 
I thought I'd go mad with joy. I wanted to sing, to 
dance. 

Prince [dolefully]. Yes, of course. But don't you 
think, Nina Petrovna, it is a little cruel to tell me so? 

Nina [recollecting herself, with a wayward smile]. 
Oh, I beg your pardon, Prince, but, upon my word, I am 
so happy that I have forgotten everything. I was in- 



60 War 

considerate. Forgive me. [She puts out her hand to 
him.] 

Prince [declining to take if]. I have no right either 
to forgive or to resent your conduct. I have forced my- 
self into your life, and I can lay no claim to a place in 
it. 

Nina [grieved and sorry, yet with a smile]. Why 
do you speak that way, Prince? You know I am very 
fond of you. 

Prince [with an affected smile]. Thank you — I 
value it very highly — but it's not exactly the sentiment 
I wanted. 

Nina [grieved]. But what can I do? 

Prince. You can do nothing. — Well, let's drop it. 
[He shakes his head.] What I wanted to say is this. 
As long as everything was uncertain, I did not think I 
had a right to leave you. I thought that after all I 
might be useful — that if the worst should happen, it 
might be easier for you in your ordeal to know that you 
had a friend near you, ready to do everything for you. 

Nina [quietly]. I am so grateful to you, Prince. 

Prince. But now circumstances have altered. Vlad- 
imir Aleksandrovich is returning home. His wound can- 
not be serious, or he would have written you about it. 
I feel that my further presence here is not needed, that 
I would be in your own and your husband's way. 

Nina [sadly]. You mean to leave us? 

Prince. Yes; I am going to Moscow this evening — 
and I think we shall never see each other again. 

Nina [after a pause]. Well, perhaps you are right. 
You had better go. 

Prince [bitterly]. Is that all you have to tell me for 
our last farewell? 

Nina [throwing up her arms in a gesture of help" 
lessness]. What else can I say? 

Prince. This, Nina — let me frankly call you by 



War 61 

your first name for the first and last time. In my heart 
I always call you so. [Nina, in embarrassment, hangs 
her head and locks her fingers. ] — Tell me, have you 
never had any other feeling for me ? Don't be surprised, 
and don't be frightened at my putting this question to 
you. I want nothing from you any more; but it would 
make it easier for me to go if I could think the ruin of 
my life was only an accident, that the role I played in 
relation to you was not so ridiculous, after all! Spare 
my masculine self-love. [He gives a short laugh.] 

Nina. I don't know — I can't tell myself. 

Prince. So, after all — ? 

Nina [with sudden resolution]. Listen, Prince! you 
have been so good to me all this time, I am so thankful 
to you, I'll tell you. I'll tell you the truth. [After a 
second's hesitation.] Well, yes, there were moments 
when I loved you. 

Prince [grasping her hand] . Nina ! 

Nina [pulling her hand away]. But those were 
moments of weakness, when I felt all alone in the world, 
convinced that I should never see Vladimir again. 
[Lowering her head.] I am a woman, Prince, — just an 
ordinary woman, as you once said. — You remember ? I 
cannot live without love. And so, when I thought that 
Vladimir was killed — [Fidgeting uneasily, and not 
looking at him.] It's ugly, mean — but I — [She 
breaks off as under a strain.] 

Prince. That means that if — 

Nina [frightened, quickly raising her eyes to him]. 
Prince ! Don't ! You mustn't say that. It was simply 
stronger than myself. [With lowered voice.] I am an 
ugly, immoral person — a woman to be despised. 

Prince. Maybe. But I love you just as you are, 
and now more than ever. 

Nina [rising quickly]. Goodby, Prince. You mustn't 
speak about it any more. 



62 War 

Prince. One word, Nina, one word! So, if your 
husband had really been killed — 

Nina [silently for a while she struggles with herself, 
then with resolution says quickly:] Well, yes! 

There is silence. Nina stands with her face turned 
away from the Prince, her hands trembling. 

Prince. So! How stupid the ways of life are! 
Just accident. It's absurd. Thousands of people killed 
in the war, and — 

Nina [drawing herself up and stiffening straight as a 
cord] . Prince ! 

Prince [stubbornly and dolefully]. You are afraid 
of the words. But if it is the truth ! — Why should I 
mince it, why should I sham and lie, when that which 
makes you so happy and radiant today means for me the 
end of all my hopes, the end of love and happiness ? If 
you can so lightly and so easily sacrifice me to another, 
then why should I dissemble? I'll tell you the truth — 
why shouldn't I ? When you were looking over the lists 
of the dead, trembling lest your husband's name be there, 
I, too, was looking for it. 

Nina [indignantly]. Could you do a thing like that? 
That was vile. 

Prince. What was vile? Is it vile to love? 

Nina [contemptuously]. Love! Let that word 
alone ! How dare you talk about love ? 

Prince [surprised]. Nina! 

Nina [proudly]. I am no Nina to you. How dare 
you call me Nina? You loved me? [Laughing con- 
temptuously.] You wanted a good-looking woman, 
that's all. Why, men like you cannot love. They don't 
know what it is. Let me tell you now: — I never, 
never loved you, not for a single moment. — Let me 
alone. Do you hear ? [She turns quickly and goes into 
the house.] 



War 63 

Prince. Nina. [He remains standing for a long 
time with head bowed, then turns around resolutely and 
goes to the gate. Before he reaches it, he is met by 
Asya and Semyonov. Asya is in deep mourning. On 
the sleeve of Semyonov' s top-coat is a red cross.] 

Semyonov. Ah, Your Excellency! Going already? 

Prince. Yes, I am going. I want to say goodby to 
you, Aleksandra Ivanovna. 

Asya [mechanically']. Goodby. 

Semyonov. Why this formal leave-taking? Are you 
going away? 

Prince. Yes; I am going to Moscow tonight. 

Semyonov. That so? H'm — Well, I guess it's 
best. 

Prince [with an affected smile]. I suppose it is. 

Semyonov. Well, goodby, then. You are going away 
for good, I suppose? 

Prince. Yes ! 

Semyonov. Goodby. 

They shake hands and part. 

Semyonov [to the Prince at the gate]. One moment, 
Prince. [The Prince stops; Semyonov goes over to 
him.] I wanted to tell you that — I had a very bad 
opinion of you — and I am glad to find that you have 
force and will and dignity. I thought — excuse me — 
that you were j ust a plain rascal. — Now I see you have 
suffered a great deal. Forgive the past. I wish you 
well. 

Prince [with a touch of haughty irony]. Thank you; 
I am deeply moved. 

Semyonov. Goodby. [He gives the Prince a vigor- 
ous handshake and follows him a while with his eyes. 
The Prince goes out without looking around. Semyonov 
runs up the steps to overtake Asya.] Asya, wait. 

Asya [stopping]. What is it? 



64 War 

Semyonov. Tell you what, let's sit down here a 
little. The atmosphere inside is stifling; upon my word, 
it's impossible to breathe. Piotr Ivanovich never says a 
word, Olga Petrovna cries, and Nina is crazy with joy. 
We don't exist for her now. Let's sit down here. 

Asya [obediently]. All right. [She quietly goes 
down the steps and takes a seat on the bench under the 
trees.] I just wanted to see what Mother was doing. 

Semyonov. You mean Olga Petrovna? 

Asya [quietly]. Yes, Mother. She mustn't be al- 
lowed to remain alone for long. 

Semyonov [mechanically]. You still call her 
"Mother"? 

Asya [quietly]. Yes. 

Semyonov. H'm — well, oh, yes! [After a pause.] 
So the Prince is going away. That's good. The fact 
is, it would all be ridiculous if it weren't so tragic. 
Strange what a jumble of things life is — tragedy, com- 
edy, with a little merry farce thrown in. 

Asya [mechanically, and hardly listening]. Where is 
the farce? 

Semyonov [with an insincere laugh]. Well, between 
you and me, isn't it a farce? Why not? 

Asya [wearily]. Oh, stop, Semyon Nikolayevich. 

Semyonov. I'd be glad to stop, Aleksandra Ivan- 
ovna, but I can't. 

Asya [pained]. It's a bore. 

Semyonov. For you it's a bore; for me it's misery. 
What's to be done? You see, the Prince is going away. 
That means that they have talked themselves to a con- 
clusion, after all. But you and I seem to be absolutely 
deadlocked; we don't seem to be able to reach a con- 
clusion. 

Asya [pained, glancing all around]. Really, Senya 
— I don't know — what conclusion ? All there is to be 



War 65 

said has been said over and over again. What good 
is your persistence? 

Semyonov. You may think all has been said, but I 
don't. There is still the last word to be said. 

Asya. Say it then. 

Semyonov. It's easy to say " say it." 

Asya [indifferently]. Don't say it, then. 

Semyonov. Pshaw! How you throw ice water on a 
fellow's head! It's cruel, Aleksandra Ivanovna. 

Asya. I won't; I won't. Say what you intended to 
say. [There is silence. Semyonov looks at Asya out 
of the corners of his eyes, twirls his moustache, and 
raises it to his mouth.'] Well, I have to go, Senya. 

Semyonov. One moment. Listen, Asya. 

Asya. I am listening. 

Semyonov. Listen, then. [Hesitating, then making 
up his mind.] I know that you are unhappy, and that 
you don't care for me. But the situation is this — No, 
that's not what I wanted to say. I'll tell you straight 
out. I love you, Asya, and I haven't much longer to 
live. 

Asya [annoyed] . You know what, Senya. You have 
said so much about dying that we have ceased to believe 
it. For three years now you've been telling us that you 
are dying. [She turns away with a mild wave of her 
hand.] 

Semyonov [his face changing]. I beg your pardon 
for not having died. Honestly, it isn't my fault. 

Asya [sighing]. Goodness gracious! Words, words, 
words ! Nothing but words ! What's it all for ? 

Semyonov [with an affected laugh]. For this — 

Asya [throwing up her hands and shrugging her 
shoulders]. Stop, Semyon Nikolayevich ! 

Semyonov. But if I love you ! 

Asya. Oh, for God's sake, how sick I am of it ! [In 



66 War 

a hurst of vexation.] You are standing with one foot 
in the grave and talk about love. [She rises.] 

Semyonov [also rising, his face pale with rage]. Yes. 
So? Fine! — What of it? I am standing with one 
foot in the grave, but your Volodya has been all in the 
grave a long time. 

Asya [utters a short shriek and drops down on the 
bench and covers her face with her hands]. Oh, Senya! 

There is silence. Semyonov looks at her, his whole 
body trembling. 

Semyonov [coming to himself]. Asya! Asya! 
Forgive me ! I — I didn't mean to. — I don't know — 

Asya [suddenly letting her hands fall, in a dead 
voice]. It's all the same. [She rises and slowly goes 
towards the house.] 

Semyonov [following her, not knowing how to undo 
the effect of the remark he allowed to slip in his heat]. 
Asya, I swear I didn't mean to say it. 

Nina [appearing on the balcony]. Ah, you here? 
Where is the Prince? Is he gone? 

Semyonov. Yes. 

Nina [with a momentary expression of sadness flitting 
across her face]. Is he? — Have you been to the 
station, Semyon Nikolayevich ? [To Asya as she passes 
by her towards the house.] What's the matter? You 
look so queer. Has anything happened? 

Asya. No; I have a headache. [She goes out.] 

Nina. Haven't you been at the station? 

Semyonov. No; I called them up. The train will 
arrive at three. 

Nina [disappointed]. You said it was due at two. 

Semyonov. So it is, according to the timetable, but 
the station master said it will probably be an hour late. 
So far, not a single train has arrived on schedule time. 



War 67 

Nina. Are you going there? 

Semyonov. No. No soldiers are coming today ex- 
cept Vladimir Aleksandrovich. It's a regular train. 

Nina. I ought to go, but — [Smiling constrain- 
edly.'] I can't. I am so excited I can scarcely contain 
myself. Even here I am almost crazy. It seems to me, 
somehow, that he would like it better if I met him at 
home with no strangers around. 

Semyonov [mechanically']. Yes, certainly. The 
Prince has offered to bring him here in his motor. So 
you needn't worry. 

Nina. What? The Prince? 

Semyonov. Yes; he said he would go to the station 
and bring Vladimir Aleksandrovich home. 

Nina [her eyes cloud over with a mist]. How kind 
of him ! Don't you think he is a very kind man, Semyon 
Nikolayevich ? 

Semyonov. Who ? The Prince ? Yes, he is — not 
without a sense of gratitude. — So you are going to re- 
main at home ? 

Nina. Yes ! — I can't — [She smiles sadly.] You 
know, I am afraid. 

Semyonov. Of what? 

Nina. I am just afraid — afraid that when I see the 
wound — 

Semyonov. There's nothing to be afraid of. He 
wrote you it was healing already ; — so it can't be very 
serious. He would have prepared you beforehand, if it 
were. 

Nina [with a sickly smile]. I know it isn't dan- 
gerous — and yet — Well, I don't know — I am 
afraid. 

Semyonov. You had better stay at home, then, if 
you are so excited. 

Nina [sitting down on the balustrade]. Sit down, 
Semyon Nikolayevich — I don't know why, but I have 



68 War 

a horror of remaining alone. Asya has gone to Mamma. 

Semyonov. All right. I'll stay with you. [He 
takes a seat opposite Nina.] 

Nina [musingly]. Now we'll all be together again. 

Semyonov. Not exactly all. 

Nina [sorrowfully]. No, not all; you are right. 
Poor Volodya! Poor Dauel I am happy, but I'm 
ashamed to be. I am so sorry for Mother, for Asya, for 
Father. 

Semyonov [lighting a cigarette]. Yes, you are lucky, 
after all. 

Nina. He is wounded, though. 

Semyonov. What if he is? The wound will heal. 
You know, it's even better so. If he hadn't been 
wounded, he might have been killed later. Now it's all 
over. Even if he should want to go again when he is 
cured, you won't let him. In the meantime the war will 
end, and then you can begin to live. With the cross of 
St. George, all roads are open to him. He can get any- 
thing he wants. You'll move to Petrograd — I can't for 
the life of me get used to that name — Petrograd. 

Nina [smiling gayly]. No, no; I won't let him go 
again. Let others go now. Vladimir has done his part. 

Semyonov. And has distinguished himself doing it, 
too. 

Nina [radiant]. Try as I may, I can't imagine 
Vladimir in war — a hero — under fire. As I see him, 
he is just a plain, dear man. 

Semyonov. It's men like him that make heroes. 

Nina [ecstatically]. Ah, Semyon Nikolayevich, if 
you only knew how happy I am! 

Semyonov [with a friendly smile], I am glad you 
are, from the bottom of my heart. 

Nina [plaintively]. Mamma is angry at me because 
I'm not in black. I haven't forgotten Volodya, but I 



War 69 

simply couldn't wear mourning today. My heart is full 
of sunshine, so how can I put on crepe ? 

Semyonov. Why should you? What good is it? 

The mother enters, with stooped bach, wrinkled face, 
and hair turned completely gray. Asya follows close 
behind her, 

Nina. There is Mamma. 

Olga Petrovna [listlessly]. How do you do, Sem- 
yon Nikolayevich ? Thank you for coming. At least 
you haven't forgotten. [Sitting down on the top step.] 
Nina, she has forgotten her brother Volodya. 

Nina [vexed]. Oh, Mamma! I have not forgotten 
him. Can't you understand? 

Olga [looking disapprovingly at her]. Yes, yes; 
don't tell me. You have forgotten, and that's all. 

Nina [excitedly]. All right, I'll go and put on a 
black dress. I don't know what you want of me. 

Asya. Nina ! 

Nina [instantly calming herself]. But really — I 
don't know — Mother has been after me that way the 
whole day long! 

She turns away. The mother follows her with the 
same disapproving look, shaking her head. 

Semyonov [to change the subject]. How is your 
health, Olga Petrovna? 

Olga. What health! And what do I want health 
for? Volodichka is gone. [She sobs.] 

Asya. Mamma, you mustn't. [She sits down beside 
her and presses up close to her.] 

Olga [stroking her hair]. Here is Asenka; I have 
her left. Asenka has not forgotten Volodya. So we'll 
live with her. [She presses Asya's head to her bosom.] 
My poor little widow ! 



70 War 

There is silence. 

Semyonov. Soon Vladimir Aleksandrovich will be 
here. 

Olga [crossly]. Yes, he'll be here. — Well, thank 
God! But Volodichka will not be here. Our Volo- 
dichka will never be here again. You remember how 
you used to call them? Volodya the Big, and Volodya 
the Little. So Volodya the Big is coming, and Volodya 
the Little is not. 

Asya cries. 

Nina. Mamma, you are always exciting her. 

Olga. I am not exciting her. — Am I exciting you, 
Asenka ? 

Asya [trying to keep back her tears]. No, Mamma; 
don't mind me. 

Olga. Yes; Volodya the Big is coming. 

Nina [shrugging her shoulders]. You say it as 
though you were sorry he wasn't killed. 

There is silence. 

Olga. Don't be angry, Ninochka. I am so sorry for 
Volodya. 

Nina. Why, Mamma, aren't we all sorry? 

Olga. Oh, for you it's different. Your husband is 
coming home, and you'll console yourself with him. 
You are young; there is a long life ahead of you. But 
for your father and me there is nothing left now but to 
die. 

Nina. Am I not your daughter? Am I nothing to 
you any more ? 

Olga [quietly, without listening to her]. They have 
killed Volodya — killed him. 

Katya [appearing at the door]. Shall I set the 
table? 



War 71 

Nina [rising quickly]. Yes, of course; it's going on 

three already. Mamma, I'll go and attend to every- 
thing. 

Olga [mechanically]. Go, go. 

Nina and Katya go out. 

Olga. Ninochka is annoyed with me. She thinks me 
a nuisance. 

Asya. Mamma, how can you talk like that! You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself. 

Olga. Well, it's only natural. She is young, and I 
am boring her sick. 

Asya. She loves you, too. 

Olga. I know she does. But no one will ever love as 
Volodya did. 

Asya. And I, Mamma? 

Olga. You are a darling. But, after all, you are not 
my flesh and blood. You will forget Volodichka, and 
you will marry. 

Asya. I will never marry. 

Olga [shaking her head]. God knows, God knows, 
Asenka. 

The chugging of an automobile and the tooting of a 
horn are heard from a distance. Asya and Semyonov sit 
up and listen. 

Semyonov [getting up]. What's that? Is it they, 
already? It's only a little after two. 

Asya [almost frightened]. I don't know; the car 
seems to be coming this way. 

Asya and Semyonov walk down the steps and listen. 

Asya. It's they. There is Sidorenko. — Nina! 
Nina ! 

She runs towards the house, then stops. Sidorenko, 



72 War 

tattered, sunburnt, but beaming, pushes through the gate 
with the trunk. 

Semyonov. Hello, Sidorenko! 

Sidorenko. How do you do, Mr. Semyonov. [He 
puts the trunk down on the ground.] 

Semyonov. Where is Vladimir Aleksandrovich? 

Sidorenko. He is here. The machine had to stop a 
little way off, it couldn't get through the lane. 

The Prince rushes in, looking pale and distracted, fol- 
lowed by a Red Cross surgeon and a soldier. 

Prince [goes up to Semyonov, takes his arm, and pulls 
him aside. In a subdued voice]. Prepare Nina Pe- 
trovna. Vladimir Aleksandrovich is very severely 
wounded. 

Semyonov [frightened]. What? Severely? Then 
why didn't he — 

Prince [hastily]. He didn't want to write — [In 
a low voice]. Both of his legs are torn off. 

Semyonov [recoiling] . Impossible ! — Asya ! 

Asya [who has heard all the Prince has said to Sem- 
yonov] . I am going — at once, and — [She runs into 
the house.] 

Prince. The car can't drive up here. We must get 
an armchair or something. 

Semyonov. Armchair? Yes, directly. Here is one. 
[He grabs hold of the rush-bottomed chair.] 

Prince. Take it, gentlemen. 

The surgeon and the soldier quickly carry off the arm- 
chair. The Prince starts after them, but instantly turns 
back. 

Prince. Please go and see to Nina Petrovna, and I'll 
stay here. 



War 73 

Semyonov. All right. [He runs out.] 

Olga [in alarm']. What is it, Prince? Is Vladimir 
Aleksandrovich very sick? 

Prince. Yes. 

Olga [rising quickly]. Poor Ninochka! Why, how 
is that? What's the matter with him? 

Prince. Both his legs are torn off. 

Olga Petrovna silently crosses herself and drops 
limply on her seat. — Piotr Ivanovich walks in rapidly. 
Immediately after, Nina runs by, closely followed by 
Asya. 

Nina. What is it, Prince? — Vladimir is wounded? 
— Dangerously ? — Impossible ! — Prince ! — 

Prince. Steady ! Be calm ! — Steady, Nina Pe- 
trovna ! 

Nina [running down into the garden]. Where is he? 
Where am I to go ? 

Prince. He'll be brought in soon. — Don't go. 

Nina. Brought in? [She stares at him, horrified. 
The Prince lowers his eyes, then runs to the gate. A 
group of people appear at the gate, carrying Vladimir 
Aleksandrovich in the armchair. He is lean, haggard, 
and emaciated. The stumps of his legs are covered with 
a blanket. On seeing Nina, the men put the armchair 
on the ground, the blanket slips off, and shows the 
stumps wrapped up in white, formless, ugly rags.] 

Vladimir [putting out his hand], Nina! Ninochka! 

Nina starts back from him in terror, reels, and falls 
straight into the Prince's arms as he holds them out to 
catch her. 

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